IERKELEY\ 

JBRARY     ] 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  ENGLAND. 


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THE 


POETS   AND   POETRY 


OF 


ENGLAND, 


IN 


THE    NINETEENTH    CENTURY. 


BY 

KUFUS  W.  /QBISWOLD. 


A  BRAINLESS  SHOWER 

OF  LIGHT  IS  POESY ;  'TIS  THE  SUPREME  OF  POWER  ; 
TIS  MIGHT  HALF  SLUMBERING  ON  ITS  OWN  RIGHT  ARM. 

JOHN  EBA.TS. 


SECOND    EDITION. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
CAEEY  &  HART,  CHESNUT  STREET. 

MDCCCXLV. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844,  by 

CAREY  &  HART, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


Stereotyped  by  L.  Johnson,  Phlla.          •  Printed  by  T.  K.  fc  P.  O.  Collins. 


TO 

\W  TT  Tf  TT  IT  A  WT     T£)  If  ^  TIP  T£? 
w  Jl  ib  JL  ilJjX  M    Jr  lei  11  i£j  1&9 


OF 

CHRIST   CHURCH,    OXFORD, 

A3 
THE    UNIVERSALLY   ESTEEMED    REPRESENTATIVE    OF    HER    BRITANNIC    MAJESTY 

IN 


Jbteie  0! 


WHO   UNITES   TO   THE   ATTAINMENTS   OF  A    SCHOLAR 
THE    FINEST   SOCIAL   QUALITIES, 


THIS  VIEW 


THE    MODERN    POETRY    OF    HIS    COUNTRY 

IS  RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBE!! 


P  B  E  F  A  C  E. 


THE  rise  and  progress  of  English  poetry  form  one  of  the  most  delightful  and 
instructive  chapters  in  the  intellectual  history  of  the  world.  We  trace  its  glim- 
mering dawn  in  the  ballads  of  the  early  minstrels,  its  brilliant  morning  in  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  and  its  rich  and  bold  development  in  the  literature  of  the  age 
of  Elizabeth,  in  which  British  genius  reached  an, elevation  unparalleled  in  the 
history  of  mankind.  BACON  and  HOBBES  and  COKE,  BARROW  and  TAYLOR  and 
HOOKER,  RALEIGH  and  SELDEN  and  SIDNEY,  SPENSER  and  SHAKSPEARE  and 
MILTON,  breathed  in  the  same  generation  the  air  of  England,  and  though  they 
did  .not  all  give  a  lyrical  expression  to  thought  and  passion,  they  were  nearly  all 
poets,  in  the  truest  and  highest  sense  of  the  word,  and  they  formed  with  their 
contemporaries  the  most  wonderful  constellation  of  great  men  that  ever  adorned 
a  nation  or  an  nge. 

It  is  a  remark  of  HUME,  that  when  arts  come  to  perfection  in  a  state  they 
necessarily  decline,  and  seldom  or  never  revive  there.  In  England  the  decline 
of  poetry,  was  as  rapid  as  had  been  its  rise,  and  in  the  long  interregnum  which 
succeeded  the  Restoration,  scarcely  a  work  was  produced  which  has  an  actual 
and  enduring  popularity.  The  artificial  school  introduced  from  the  Continent  by 
the  followers  of  CHARLES  the  Second,  attained  its  acme  at  last,  however,  in  the 
polished  numbers  of  POPE,  and  a  gradual  return  to  nature  became  visible  in  the 
productions  of  THOMSON  and  COWPER  and  BURNS,  who  ushered  in  the  second 
great  era  of  British  literature,  a  general  view  of  the  poetical  portion  of  which  I 
have  endeavoured  to  present  in  this  volume. 

There  is  at  the  present  time,  it  seems  to  me,  great  need  of  a  work  of  this  sort. 
The  surveys  and  selections  of  English  poetry  from  CHAUCER  to  the  close  of  the 
lagt  century,  are  numerous,  and  some  of  them,  especially  those  of  CAMPBELL  and 
HAZLITT,  are  made  with  singular  candour  and  discernment.  But  there  has 
hitherto  been  no  extensive  review  of  the  Poetry  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  more 
rich  and  varied  than  that  of  all  other  periods,  excepting  only  the  golden  one  of 
SHAKSPEARE. 

From  those  whose  entire  works  have  been  republished  in  this  country,  and  of 
whom  a  knowledge  may  safely  be  presumed,  I  have  deemed  it  in  some  instances 

A2  5 


PREFACE. 


unnecessary  to  quote  very  largely,  while  I  have  presented  comparatively  numerous 
selections  from  several  poets  who  are  less  familiar  to  American  readers.  It  is  a 
singular  fact  that  while,  with  the  exception  of  TALFOURD,  KNOWLES  and  BULWER, 
so  few  have  recently  added  to  the  stock  of  standard  acting  plays,  so  many  fine 
poems  have  appeared  in  the  dramatic  form.  From  some  of  these  I  have  drawn 
with  considerable  freedom,  though  less  largely  than  I  should  have  done  but  for  the 
difficulty  of  doing  justice  to  authors  in  mere  extracts  from  works  of  this  descrip- 
tion. One  of  the  most  striking  distinctions  of  the  poetry  of  this  century  is  un- 
doubtedly discoverable  in  the  great  number  of  deservedly  popular  lyrics  which 
it  embraces.  In  no  other  period  have  so  many  exquisite  gems  of  feeling,  thought 
and  language  been  produced.  To  the  best  of  my  judgment  I  have  brought 
together  the  most  admirable  of  these,  with  the  finest  passages  of  longer  poems 
which  could  not  themselves  be  given  entire. 

The  merits  of  BYRON  and  WORDSWORTH  have  been  amply  discussed  by  recent 
critics  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  the  claims  of  SHELLEY  begin  to  attract  a 
share  of  the  attention  they  deserve.  If  the  author  of  Childe  Harold  excelled  all 
others  in  the  poetry  of  intense  emotion,  and  the  bard  of  Rydal  in  that  of  reflective 
sentiment,  SHELLEY  has  contributed  no  less  to  what  is  purely  imaginative  in  the 
divine  art.  The  graphic  power  of  CRABBE  in  dealing  with  actual  and  homely 
materials,  the  picturesque  and  romantic  beauty  of  SCOTT,  the  wildness,  sublimity 
and  feeling  of  COLERIDGE,  the  gorgeous  description  and  fine  reflection  of  SOUTHEY, 
the  voluptuous  imagery  and  happy  wit  of  MOORE,  the  elegance  and  rhetorical 
energy  of  CAMPBELL,  have  each  in  their  degree  influenced  the  popular  taste ; 
while  the  classical  imagery  of  KEATS,  the  brilliance  and  tenderness  of  PROCTOR, 
the  cheerfulness  and  humanity  of  HUNT,  and  the  philosophic  repose  of  MILNES, 
interest  the  warm  sympathies  of  different  readers. 

A  taste  for  poetry  is  visibly  increasing  among  us,  especially  for  that  poetry 
which  celebrates  the  triumphs  of  humanity,  the  sacred  claims  of  freedom,  the 
holy  associations  of  love,  and  all  the  scenes  and  sentiments  which  redeem  life  and 
make  hallowed  ground  of  the  earth.  There  is  much  in  the  following  pages  fitted 
to  promote  and  refine  such  a  taste,  and  that  they  may  essentially  contribute  to  so 

desirable  a  result  is  the  earnest  hope  of  the  editor. 

I 

Philadelphia,  October  20,  1844. 


CONTENTS. 


GEORGE  CRAI5BE 17 

StanzAs— "  Let  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view" 17 

Reconciliation IS 

Woman 18 

The  Wretched  Mind 19 

The  Dream  of  the  Condemned 19 

A  Sea  Fog 19 

The  Sudden  Death  and  Funeral 20 

The  Death  of  Ruth 20 

A  Group  of  Gipsies 20 

The  Poor-House 21 

Newspapers 21 

WILLIAM  SOTHEBY 22 


Ronn 


22 

Tivoli 23 

The  Grotto  of  Egeria 23 

WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES 24 

Discovery  nf  Madeira 24 

Dreams  of  Youth 26 

To  Time 26 

Retrospection 26 

Funeral  of  Charles  the  First 27 

Remembrance 27 

On  the  Rhine 27 

Written  at  Os'end 27 

Matilda 27 

SAMUEL  ROGERS 28 

An  Epis'letoaFriend 29 

On  tlw  Dea-h  of  a  Sister 30 

The  Pleasures  of  Memory 31 

Loch-Long 32 

Ginevra 33 

The  Four  Eras 33 

Don  Garzia 34 

The  Fountain 34 

Venice 35 

SIR  EGERTON  BRYDGES 36 

Echo  and  Silence 37 

The  Approach  of  Cold  Weather 37 

The  Winds 37 

To  Evening 37 

To  a  Lady  in  Illness 37 

To  Autumn,  near  her  Departure 37 

To  Mary 38 

Hastings'  Sonnets 38 

Sonnet  on  Moor  Park 39 

Written  August  20,  1807 39 

Written  at  Paris,  May  10,  1825 39 

Written  at  Paris,  May  II,  1827 39 

Written  at  Lee  Priory,  August  10,  1826 39 

JOANNA  BA1LLIE 40 

Birthday  Lines  to  Agnes  Baillie 41 

To  a  Child 41 

Christopher  Columbus .  .  . 42 

Patriotism  and  Freedom 42 

From  "  The  Traveller  by  Night" 43 

Constancy 43 

Song — "  The  morning  air  plays  on  my  face" 43 

ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD 44 

The  Bird-Boy 44 

Address  to  his  Native  Vale 45 

Harvest-Home 45 

The  Widow  to  her  Hour-Glass 45 

JOHN  H.  FRERE 46 

Proem  to  a  National  Work,  by  William  and  Robert  Whistlecraft  .  46 

SirGawain 47 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 48 

Inscription  for  a  Seat  in  the  Groves  of  Coleorton 50 

A  youthful  Poet  contemplating  Nature 50 

Evening  in  the  Mountain! 50 

Skating 50 

On  Revisiting  the  Wye 


51 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

Clouds  after  a  Storm 

Man  never  to  be  Scorned 

Obedience  and  Humility 

A  Deserted  Wife 

Chatlerton 

Picture  of  a  Beggar 

A  Lover  

Longing  for  Reunion  with  the  Dead 

A  Child  with  a  Shell 

Apostrophe  to  the  Deity 

Communion  with  Nature 

From  a  Poem  on  the  Power  of  Sound 

Dion. 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 

The  Power  of  Virtue 

Intimations  of  Immortality,  from  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood 

Evening  by  the  Thames 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet 

Great  Men ". 

Milton 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture 

"  The  World  is  too  much  with  us" 

A  Nation's  Power  not  in  Armies 

A  Vision 

Childhood 

Elegiac  Stanzas 

Presentiments 

To  the  Daisy 

"  She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways" 

Ode  to  Duty 

We  are  Seven 

An  Incident  at  Bruges 

The  Solitary  Reaper 


"  She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight'1 

A  Mountain  Solitude 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT    .    .    .    . 
The  Trial  of  Constance     .    .    . 

Hunting  Song 

The  Cypress  Wreath      .    .    .    . 
Lochinvar    


and  Roderick  Dhu 


A  Bridal 

The  Last  Minstrel     .    . 

The  Teviot 

Hellvellyn 

A  Scene  in  Braiiksome  To 
Farewell  to  the  Muse 
Melrose  Abbey     .    .    . 
JAMES  MONTGOMERY 
The  Grave      .... 


The  Pillow 

Friends 

Discovery  and  Conquest  of  America 

Youth  Renewed    ...._.... 

The  Common  Lot 

The  Stranger  and  His  Friend    .    .    . 

Incognita 

Speed  the  Prow 

Recluse 

The  Field  of  the  World 

JAMES  HOGG 

Kilmeny 

The  Broken  Heart 

The  Sky  lark 

Queen  Mary's  Return  to  Scotland  . 
SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  . 

Dejection 

Youth  and  Age 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner     .     . 

Love 


CONTEND a 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

WILLIAM    HERBERT 

132 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY                        '  

.    .    .    93 



....  133 

OJe,  wrilteu  during  the  Negotiations  with  Bonaparte,  in  Jan. 

1*14.    9^ 

Farewell      
Wa.hu.jrton     

....  133 
....  134 

96 

SIR  HUMPHRY  DAVY      

....  135 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim  

97 

....  I3> 

....  136 

.     r. 

.    98 

....  136 

98 

....  137 

99 

Mont  RU.ic      

....  137 

99 

....  137 

-    99 

....  138 

.    99 

7  he  Eagles      

....  138 

...  138 

90 

Life   ....                            

....  138 

100 

Thought     

....  138 

.    .  100 

The  Pur»uit  of  Learning   

....  140 

•riinar  Relate*  to  Gebir  bit  First  Encounter  with  the  Nymph 

.     .  102 

HORACE  SMITH    

....  140 
.     .    .     .  J41 

103 

ii  to  the  Flower*    

....  141 

To  Ian  'be 

103 

The  Head  of  Meiuuun  

.    .    .    .  142 

•i'h         .    .                       ... 

103 

M«.ral  Huins     

.     .     .     .143 

104 

143 

.    .  104 

To  the  AUbMlerSArropli'^u*     

144 

.    .  104 

,,  Alv.-b.i-mv 

145 

To  a  D  ad  CliiM     

.    .  104 

THOMAS  MOORE  

....  146 

, 
Repen'anceof  KinfRodeTijo  

Morning     

.    .  104 
105 
.    .  106 

The  Fire-  Worshipper!  
"The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara'*  HalU».    .        .    . 

....  147 
....  165 
....  165 
165 

Clifton   
Pimp  from  Ippolito  di  E.te  .    .    •    

.    .  106 
.    .  106 

"Oft,  in  (he  stilly  b^hr    
Sacred  Soug     

....  166 
....  166 

....  166 

"  Oh,  DO  !—  not  even  when  first  we  loved"    

....  166 

The  Brier    

.    .  106 

.    .  106 

An  Arab  to  hi*  MUtrew  

.    .  106 

....  171 

OJe  to  Jehovah      

.    .  108 

172 

Ode  to  an  Indian  Gold  Coin  

.    .  106 

Portuguese  Hymn  to  thr  Virgin    

.    .  109 

A  .Morning  Scene   

109 

.    .  109 

EBENEZER  ELLIOTT    

....  174 

Changes  of  Home  
TevioMale    

.    .110 
.    .  110 

On  Seeing  Audubon's  "  Bird,  of  America"  

....  179 
....  179 

180 

CHARLES  LAMB      

.    .  Ill 

The  Dymp  Boy  to  the             OMO 

Farewell  to  Tobacco  

.    .  112 

Hnter      

.    .  113 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces  

.    .  113 

183 

1  13 

The  Wonders  of  the   .. 

Sonnet—"  We  were  two  pretty  babe*''  

.    .  113 

184 

....  184 

....  185 

....  185 

....  185 

....  185 

Exile  of  Erin  

.    .  117 

REGINALD  HEBER    . 

.  186 

Valedictory  Stanzas  to  J.  P.  Kemble,  Esq US 

The  Soldier'*  Dream 118 

Description  of  Wyoming 119 

Dir?f-of  Outalissi 119 

The  Fall  of  Poland 120 

Hohenlinden 120 

Caroline 120 

O'Connor's  Child 121 

The  List  Scene  in  Gertrude  of  Wyoming 123 

The  Beech  tree'*  Petition 123    I 

WILLIAM  HERBERT 124 

The  Phantom  FiKht 125 

The  De»cent  to  Hela 126 

Solitude 129 

Fulurity 129 

Jealousy 129 

irr'sPIea 130 

The  Battle  Field .131 


Christmas  Hymn . 
The  W  Mow  of  Nain 


'Thou 


:  «;nne  to  the  gr 


Sons — "  There  is,  they  say,  a  secret  wel 

Farewell 

Missionary  Hymn 

The  British  Bow 

Ver»es  to  Mr*.  Heber    ...... 


ALLAN  Cl'NMNGHAM 

"  A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea1'    .     .     . 

Gentle  Hugh  Herries 

The  Poet's  Bridal-day  Son* 

"li'K  Hume  and  it's  Hame'' 

"  The  shepherd  seeks  his  glowiug  hearth" 

"  Awake,  my  love  1" 

"  My  ain  countrec" ».    . 

BERNARD  BARTON     

Spiritual  Worship 


,  187 
,  187 

187 
,  187 
,  18? 

1S-8 

188 

189 
190 
190 
190 
191 
191 
191 
191 
192 


CONTENTS.                                                                9  J 

BERNARD  BARTON. 
To  the  Skylark  
Children  of  Light  
To  Mary  
To  a  Profile  
Farewell     

.  ...  192 
....  193 
.  .  .  .193 
.  ...  193 
.  ...  193 

THOMAS  PRINGLE    
"  Afar  in  the  Desert"    .    .    . 
The  Bechuana  Boy  .    .    . 
WILLIAM  PETER  .... 
Damon  and  Pythias   
Theckla     .    . 

237 
237 
238       | 
240 
240 

LEIGH  HUNT     

Extracts  from  the  Legend  of  Florence     
Agolanti  and  his  Lady    
A  Domestic  Scene     
Fancy     
To  Lord  Byron,  on  his  Departure  for  Italy  and  Greece 
The  Fatal  Passion     
Kosciusko   

.  ...  194 
.  ...  195 
.  ...  195 
.  .  .  .  195 

.  ...  196 
.  ...  197 
.  ...  198 
.  ...  202 

The  Ideal  
Christian  Love   
The  Penitent      
On  a  Dear  Child      
Twydee    
RANN  KENNEDY  
Domestic  Bliss     

242       j 
242       I 
243       I 
243 
243 
244 
?<4 

Mahmoud    

.    ...  202 
...  203 

Ambition    
JOHN  WILSON    

244 
244 

The  Glove  and  the  Lions  

204 

To  a  Sleeping  Child    

An  Angel  in  the  House  

The  Three  Seasons  of  Love    

204 

The  Hunter  

Signs  of  the  Plague    

The  Nile    

.    .       205 

The  Plague  in  the  City    

248 

.    .    .205 

Lines  written  in  a  Lonelv  Burial  Ground  

248      1 

To  a  Child  durin°-  Sickness   . 

Address  to  a  Wild  Deer  ........ 

Lines  written  in  a  Highland  Glen     

250 

.    .    .206 

JAMES  SHERIDAN  KNOWLES  

251 

Stanzas  —  "That  was  not  a  barren  time"    

.    .    .207 

.    .    .208 

Love's  Artifice  

Last  Scene  in  John  di  Procida  

252      II 

The  Grow  th  of  Love  

253 

Artifice  Disowned  by  Love  

!    .254 

A  Storm       

209 

Pride  of  Rank     

254 

Lost  Freedom  of  Switzerland  

254 
254 

.     .     .  209 

254 

The  Lake  has  Burst  

.    .    .210 

MRS.  SOUTHEY     

.    .  255 

A  Prayer  in  Sickness 

The  Stormy  Petrel 

The  Sea 

"Softly  woo  away  her  breath" 

"  A  deep  and  a  mighty  shadow" 

The  Q  maroon 

An  Epitaph 

To  the  South  Wind . 

Music 

Flowers 

Remembered  Love 

Kings 

Ni-cht  Thoughts 

Happiww 

To  the  Singer  Pasta 

Address  to  the  Ocean 

HENRY  KIRKE   WHITE 

The  Savoyard's  Return , 

Canzoiv  t , 

"I'm  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad" 

To  Consumption 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem , 

To  an  Early  Primrose , 

LORD  BYRON  

The  Lament  of  Tasso 

The  Dream 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 

Waterloo 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  the  Right  Hon.  R.  B.  Sheridan 

The  Isles  of  Greece —..... 

Soliloquy  of  Manfred 

Cecilia  Metella 

The  Ocean 

To  Thyrza 

Stanzas—"  Away,  away,  ye  notes  of  wo" 

ToThyrz* 

"Adieu,  adieu  !  my  native  shore" 

The  Execution  of  Hugo 

Death  of  Lara  . 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib .„ 

Evening 

The  Fate  of  Beauty 

"  She  walks  in  beauty" 

To  Mary 

"Oh!  snatched  sway  in  beauty's  bloom" 

Manfred  to  the  Sorceress , 

"  On  this  day  I  complete  my  thirty-sixth  year"  .... 
2 


.  210 
.  210 
.  211 
.  211 
.  211 
.  211 
.  211 
.  212 
.  212 
.  212 
.  212 
.  212 
.  212 
.  212 
.  213 
.  213 
.  214 
.  214 
.  214 
.  215 
.  215 
.  215 
.  215 
.  216 
.  218 
.  220 
.  221 
.  225 
.  225 
.  226 
.  227 


,  230 
231 

,  232 
231 
234 
235 
235 
235 
236 
236 
236 


The  Welcome  Home 256 

•Angling 256 

Autumn  Flowers 257 

The  Pauper's  Death-be  I 257 

The  Mariner's  Hymn 257 

HENRY   HART  MILMAN 258 

Rowena 259 

Lamentation  over  Jeru:  alem 259 

Hymn  by  the  Euphrates 260 

Jewish  Hymn  in  Babylon 260 

Ode,  to  the  Saviour 261 

The  Merry  Heart 261 

Marriage  Hymn 261 

Evening  Song  of  Maidens 262 

Chorus — •'  King  of  kings !  and  Lord  of  lords !" 262 

Funeral  Anthem 263 

The  Usurer 263 

Benina  to  Bf.lshazzar 263 

JOHN  KEBLE 2S4 

Advent  Sunday 1».     .     .  264 

The  Flowers  of  the  Field 265 

The  Nightingale 265 

Forest  Leaves  in  Autumn 266 

Dimness 266 

Address  to  Poets 267 

The  United  States 267 

Champions  of  the  Truth 267 

CHARLES  WOLFE 268 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 268 

"  Oh,  my  love  has  an  eye  of  the  softest  blue" 269 

"Oh,  say  nut  that  my  heart  is  cold" 269 

"If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died" 269 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 270 

The  Sensitive  Plant 272 

Love 274 

The  Unattained 274 

Dedication  to  The  Revolt  of  Islam 275 

From  Alastor,  or  the  Spirit  of  Solitude 276 

Alastor  and  the  Swan 276 

From  The  Revolt  of  Islam 277 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 277 

Song — Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou 278 

Death  and  Sleep I    .    .  278 

A  Picture 279 

Spring 279 

From  Adonais :  An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  John  Keats  .....  280 
"  The  serpent  is  shut  out  from  Paradise" 280 


10 

CONTENTS. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

281 

THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 

.    .  315 

A  La  y   " 

282 

"  I  turn  to  thee  in  time  of  need"     ....... 

....  316 

....  316      ' 

"  The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear"    

....  282 

' 

.  283 

316      1 

....  283 

....  284 

Stanzas,  written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples   

....  284 
....  285 

A  Scene  from  Catiliue  

....  323 

.     .    .        324 

....  285 
...  286 

....  325 

....  287 

Th"!        '        Fo  est  Girl 

.    .     .    .  2S7 

The  Alhambra          

.    .  326 

6                •    Lo  -  'a  a 

....  288 

A  Lover's  Oa'h     

....  326      I 

ra  g 

288 

326      I 

....  289 

The  Trave  < 

....  289 

IhePairHree      . 

...       290 

Leonidas     

327 

e    n  e 

290 

A  Dirge  

.  327 

290 

291 

The  Grievings  of  a  Proud  Spirit      

....  328 

Mozart  s  Requiem  .    .... 

291 

....  328 

The  Dying  Improvis  tore   .    .    . 

292 

Jewels                                  . 

293 

....  328 

....  293 

....  294 

....  294 

....  330 

....  294 

....  295 

Lines  given  to  a  Friend  a  day  or  two  before  the  Decease  of  the  Writer  331 

....  295 
....  295 

...       332 

296 

332      j 

296 

333      ! 

2% 

333 

Re  zsch's  Design,  the  Angel  of  Death  

....  296 
....  296 

"  What  is  glory  ?    What  is  fame  '"  

....  333 

....  296 

....  296 

The  Dream  of  Eugene  Aram     

....  296 

y  Han  Fairy     

....  296 

Ariel  and  the  Suicide     

....  337 

Verses  to  the  Memory  of  a  Child  named  after  Charles  Lai 

ub  .    .    .  293 

338 

Silence  

....  338 

Death     

....  338      ; 

....  339 

From  an  OJe  to  Melancholy  

....  339 

Ion  described  b>  Agenor     

....  340 

Ion  receiving  the  Sacuficial  Knife  from  Ctesiphon      .     . 

To  a  Cold  Beauty     .    .              

....  340      1 

Love  

....  340      I 

me                 w     '• 

By  a  Lover  

....  340      ! 

JOHN   KEATS   

The  Eve  of  St.  A:jnes     

....  301 
....  302 

ROBERT  POLLOK     - 

....  341 
....  341 

Hymn  to  Pan    
Adonis.  »     
To  Hope  

.    .  305 
....  306 
.    .    .    .  36 

The  Millennium    
The  Author's  Account  of  Himself    
Reputation     

.     .    .     .342 
....  443 
....  344 
....  344 

OJe  to  a  Nightingale  

....  307 

.    ...  308 

Wisdom  
THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY   

....  344 
....  345      i 

Horatius      

....  350 

On  first  Seeing  Chapman  s  Homer  

....  351 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket      

.    .    .    .352 

....  353      | 

A  Fairv  Scene  from  Endymion    

.    .     .    .  309 

....  354 

309 

A  Lover  to  his  Betrothed    

.    ...  309 

....  310 

Wee  Willie     

Robin  Hood    

....  310 

'         

311 

Weep  not  for  her   

.    .    .    .  311 

THOMAS  HAYNES   BAYLY             

312 

357 

The  First  Gray  Hair     .                                ... 

313 

Love 

358 

358 

"  Wither  Away" 

313 

Life 

358      ' 

"I'm  saddest  when  I  sing" 

314 

.                358      ' 

314 

.    .  358 

"  She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses" 

358      I 

"  The  ro*e  thit  all  are    raisi     " 

369 

"  She  never  blamed  him" 

359 

359 

The  Old  Kirk  Yard 

PoesT 

.  asa 

CONTENTS. 


11 


EDWARD  MOXON 

To 

Rouen 

Piety 

MRS.    NORTON 

Dedication  of  >he  nream  to  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland 

Extract  from  the  Dream 

To  my  Books 

Twilight 

The  Blind  Man  to  his  Bride 

The  Sense  of  Beauty 

The  Mother's  Heart 

The  Child  of  Earth 

Ataraxia 

The  Widow  to  her  Son's  Betrothed 

"  Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth" 

The  Arab's  Farewell  to  his  Horse 

"  We  have  been  friends  together" 

Recollections 

"  Be  frank  with  me,  and  I  accept  my  lot "    .     .    .    . 

The  Fallen  Leaves , 

The  Careless  Word 

The  Mourners 

"  Like  an  enfranchised  bird" 

JOHN  STERLING 

To  a  Child 

Prose  and  Song 

Aphrodite 

Hymns  of  a  Hermit 

The  Dearest 

Joan  D'Arc .    . 

Alfred  the  Harper 

The  Poet's  Home , 

Mirabeau 

Louis  XV , 

Daedalus 

The  Ages 

The  Husbandman , 

The  Penitent , 

The  Moss  Rose 

The  Song  of  Eve  to  Cain 

MRS.   MACLEAN  (L.  E.  L.) 

The  Factory 

The  Minstrel's  Monitor 

The  Feast  of  Life , 

Experience 

The  Carrier-Pigeon  Returned , 

Success  alone  seen - 

"  Oh,  no !  my  heart  can  never  be" 

Necessity 

Memory 

Resolves 

"We  might  have  been!" 

"  A  long  while  ago" 

"Can  you  forget  me?" 

The  Farewell 

Calypso  watching  the  Ocean 

Despondency 

The  Wrongs  of  Love 

The  old  Times 

Crescentius 

"  I  pray  thee  let  me  weep  to-night" 

Weakness  ends  with  Love 

Affection 

Age  and  Youth 

Bitter  Experience 

The  Poet's  First  Essay 

CHARLES  SWAIN 

The  Lyre 

»  The  kind  old  friendly  feelings" 

Recollections 

"  Forgive  and  forget" 

"  Let  us  love  one  another" 

"If  thou  hast  lost  a  friend" 

The  first  Prayer 

The  Chamois  Hunters 

The  Bird  of  Hope 

SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON 

Cromwell's  Soliloquy  over  the  Dead  Body  of  Charles     . 
Cromwell's  Reflections  on"  Killing  uo  Murder"   .    .    . 

Richelieu's  Soliloquy 

Ambition  and  Glory 


3PO 
390 
391 


400 
400 
400 
400 

401 
402 
402 
403 
403 


Last  Days  of  Queen  Elizabeth 404 

The  Language  of  the  Eyes 405 

Euripides 406 

A  Spendthrift 406 

Patience  and  Hope 406 

Love  and  Fame • 406 

The  Last  Crusader 407 

The  Sabbath 407 

HENRY  TAYLOR 408 

The  Lay  of  Elena 409 

From  Philip  Van  Artevelde 412 

Repose  of  the  Heart 412 

Approach  of  Morning 412 

Artevelde's  Love  for  Adriana 413 

Greatness  and  Success 413 

Two  Characters 413 

Repentance  and  Improvement 4)3 

Artevelde's  Character  of  his  Wife 413 

Artevelde's  Vision  of  his  Wife,  the  Night  before  his  Death  .    .  414 

Character  of  Artevelde  by  the  Duke  of  Burgundy 414 

Famine  in  a  besieged  City 414 

From  Edwin  the  Fair 414 

The  Voice  of  the  Wind .414 

Dunstan's  Account  of  his  Temptations 415 

Calmness  and  Retrospection 415 

A  Soliloquy  of  Leolf 415 

A  Scholar   415 

Dunstan  on  the  Death  of  his  Mother 415 

T.  K.  HERVEY 416 

Love 416 

Cleopatra  embarking  on  the  Cydnus 416 

The  Grotto  of  Egeria 417 

The  Temple  of  Jupiter  Olympus,  at  Athens 417 

«'  Slumber  lie  soft  on  thy  beautiful  eye," 418 

To  Myra 418 

Stanzas  to  a  Lady 418 

Hope 419 

Homes  and  Graves 419 

A  Vision  of  the  Stars 430 

The  Convict  Ship 421 

"  I'm  all  alone," 421 

To  Mary 421 

ELIZABETH  B.  BARRETT 422 

Cowper's  Grave 423 

Napoleon's  Return 424 

The  Cry  of  the  Children 425 

Seraph  and  Poet 426 

The  Lay  of  the  Rose 427 

My  Doves 428 

Romaunt  of  Margret 429 

The  Deserted  Garden 431 

"Loved  once" 432 

The  Sleep 433 

Earth 433 

The  Student 434 

The  Cry  of  the  Human 434 

The  Child  and  the  Watcher 435 

Caterina  to  Camoens 436 

Despair 437 

The  Departed 437 

11  What  are  we  set  on  earth  for  ?" 437 

The  Spinning-wheel 437 

The  Soul's  Expression 437 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED 438 

The  Red  Fisherman 438 

The  Vicar 440 

School  and  School-fellows 441 

Memory 442 

Josephine 442 

«  I  know  that  it  must  be" 443 

Time's  Changes 443 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball 444 

ALFRED  TENNYSON 445 

Locksle^  Hall 446 

Godiva 449 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Night> 450 

Mariana  .     .  451 

Sir  Galahad 452 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana 452 

The  Talking  Oak 453 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 456 

Dora 457 

Circumstance 458 


12 


CONTENTS. 


GEORGE  DARLEY 459 

A  Scene  from  Ethelstan 459 

A  Seng  from  Ethelstan 460 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds 461 

The  Gambols  of  Children 461 

A  Village  Blacksmith 461 

Suicide 461 

The  Fairies 461 

A  Rural  Retreat 462 

THOMAS  WADE 463 

A  Prophecy 463 

Volition 463 

The  Bride 463 

The  Poetry  of  Earth 463 

The  Sere  Oak  Leaves 463 

The  Swan  Aviary 463 

ROBERT   BROWNING 461 

Extract  from  Paracelsus         464 

Extract  from  Sordello 465 

Caryatides  by  Sunset 465 

Eglamor 465 

An  Incident  at  Ratisbon 465 

RICHARD   HENRY  HORNE 466 

Extracts  from  Orion 466 

The  First  Appearance  of  Orion 466 

Morning 466 

Summer  Noon 467 

Building  of  the  Palace  of  Poseidon 467 

Orion's  Extirpation  of  the  Beasts  from  Chios 467 

Restoration  of  Orion 467 

FRANCES  KEMBLE  BUTLER 469 

The  Prayer  of  a  Lonely  Heart 469 

On  a  Forget -me-not,  brought  from  Switzerland 469 

On  n  Musical  Boi 470 

A  Wish 470 

Lines  written  in  London 470 

Fragment 470 

The  Vision  of  Life 471 

A  Promise 471 

To  the  Nightingale 471 

Lines  written  after  leaving  West  Point 472 

To  a  Picture 472 

"  There's  not  a  fibre  in  my  trembling  frame" 472 

Ambition      . 472 

To 472 

Venice 472 

RICHARD  MONCKTON   MILNES 473 

Lonely  Maturity 473 

The  Lay  of  the  Humble 474 

On 475 

Prayer    475 

Not  wholly  just 476 

The  Palsy  of  the  Heart 476 

A  Prayer 476 

Youth  and  Manhood 477 

Fast  Friendship 477 

Delphi,  an  Elegy 477 

The  Pai  ieuce  of  the  Poor 478 

The  Tweedy  of  the  Lac  de  Gaube,  in  the  Pyrenees 478 

The  Voice  of  the  People 479 

Alms-giving 480 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES. 

Labour  

The  Voices  of  History 

Naples  and  Venice 

Pastoral  Song 

Song  of  Thoughts 

Rich  and  Poor 

"  Because,  from  all  that  round  tbee  move" 

The  Friendship  Flower 

The  Men  of  Old 

On  Lady  C ,  in  declining  Health    .    . 

The  Long-Ago 

Prince  Emilius  of  Hesse-Darmstadt     .    . 
P.  J.  BAILEY 

Festus  describes  his  Friend 

Angela 

Calmness  of  the  Sublime 

Faith 

Great  Thoughts 

A  Letter 

Truth  and  Sorrow 

The  Ends  of  Life 

The  Poet 


480 
481 


483 
483 


4S4 
484 
485 
•185 
4  86 
487 
487 


HENRY  ALFORD    

A  Churchyard  Colloquy 

Academe 

A  Memory 

A  Funeral 

"  The  Master  is  come,  and  calleth  for  thee" 

Beauty  of  Nature 

A  Spiritual  and  well-ordered  Mind  .  .  . 
Morning  Hymn  for  All-Saints' Day  .  .  . 
A  Doubt  . 


490 
490 
491 


4P1 
491 

492 


ELIZA  COOK 

The  Mourners 

The  Wreaths 

"  He  led  her  to  the  altar"    .    . 

A  Love  Song 

The  Free 

The  Old  Arm-chair  .... 

My  Grave 

"  There's  a  star  in  the  west"  . 
"  Mourn  not  the  dead"  .  .  . 
"  The  loved  one  was  not  there" 

The  Quiet  Eye 

Song  of  the  Hempseed     .    .    . 

Washington 

Our  Native  Sou?    . 


B.  SIMMONS 

The  Disinterment 

View  on  the  Hudson 

Death-chant  for  the  Sultan  Mabmoud 


F.  W.  FABER  .... 
King's  Bridge    .    .    . 

Childhood 

The  Glimpse  .  .  .  , 
The  Perplexity  .  .  . 
To  a  Little  Boy  .  .  , 
The  After-Slate  .  .  . 

The  Wheels 

The  Signs  of  the  Timed 


493 
494 
494 
494 
495 
.  495 
,  495 
496 
496 
496 
496 
497 
498 


5'0 

501 


503 
503 
503 
604 
504 


ILLUSTKATIONS. 

PORTRAIT  OF  LORD  BYRON    .    .    .    .  Engraved  by  G.  H.  CUSHMAN    .    .    .Frontispiece. 

STAMBOUL G.  H.  CUSHMAN    .    .    Vignette  title. 

INCOGNITA J.  CHENEY 78 

EARLY  DAYS  OF  WASHINGTON W.  HUMPHREYS 134 

THE  ANGEL  VISITOR J.  CHENEY 204 

FAIR  INEZ J.  CHENEY 337 

VIOLA .  .  J.  CHENEY  .  .  371 


13 


GEORGE     CRABBE. 


THIS  poet  was  born  on  the  twenty-fourth  of 
December,  1754,  at  Aid  borough,  in  Suffolk, 
where  his  father  and  grandfather  were  officers 
of  the  customs.  At  the  school  where  he  re- 
ceived his  education  he  gained  a  prize  for  one 
of  his  poems  ;  and  on  leaving  it  he  became  an 
apprentice  to  a  surgeon  and  apothecary  in  his 
native  village.  On  the  completion  of  his  ap- 
prenticeship, abandoning  all  hope  of  success 
in  his  profession,  he  went  to  London  to  com- 
mence a  life  of  authorship.  Unknown  and 
unfriended,  he  endeavoured  in  vain  to  induce 
the  booksellers  to  publish  his  writings.  At 
length,  in  1780,  two  years  after  his  arrival  in 
the  great  metropolis,  he  ventured  to  print  at 
his  own  expense  a  poem  entitled  "  The  Can- 
didate," which  was  favourably  received.  He 
was  soon  after  introduced  to  EDMUND  BURKE, 
who  became  his  friend  and  patron,  and  pre- 
sented him  to  Fox  and  other  eminent  con- 
temporaries. In  1781  he  published  "The 
Library,"  and  was  ordained  a  deacon.  In  the 
following  year  he  became  curate  of  Aid- 
borough,  and  in  1783  he  entered  his  name  at 
Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge;  but  left  the  Uni- 
versity without  graduating,  though  he  was 
subsequently  presented  with  the  degree  of 
B.  C.  L.  After  residing  for  a  considerable 
period  at  Belvoir  Castle,  as  chaplain  to  the 
Duke  of  RUTLAND,  he  was  introduced  to  the 
Lord  Chancellor  THURLOW,  who  bestowed 
upon  him  successively  the  living  of  Frome 
St.  Quintin,  in  Dorsetshire,  and  the  rectories 
of  Muston  and  West  Allington  in  the  diocese 
of  Lincoln.  In  1807  he  published  a  com- 
plete edition  of  his  works  then  written,  which 
was  received  with  general  applause.  Three 
years  afterward  appeared  "The  Borough;"  in 


1812,  his  "Tales;"  and  in  1819,  his  "Tales 
of  the  Hall."  He  died  at  Trowbridge,  in 
Wiltshire,  in  February,  1832. 

As  a  man,  CRABBE  was  admired  and  loved  by 
all  who  knew  him.  LOCKHART,  in  describing 
his  person,  says  "his  noble  forehead,  his 
bright  beaming  eye — without  any  thing  of 
old  age  about  it,  though  he  was  then  above 
seventy — his  sweet  and  innocent  smile,  and  the 
calm,  mellow  tones  of  his  voice,  all  are  repro- 
duced the  moment  I  open  any  page  of  his  poet- 
ry." A  perfect  edition  of  his  poetical  writings, 
with  a  graceful  and  sensible  memoir  by  his  son, 
has  been  issued  by  MURRAY,  since  his  death. 

The  lovers  of  homely  truth  may  appeal  to 
CRABBE  in  proof  that  its  sternest  utterance  is 
dramatic.  No  poet  has  ventured  to  rely  more 
entirely  on  fact.  He  paints  without  delicacy, 
but  his  touches  are  so  very  literal  as  to  be 
striking  and  effective.  The  poor  have  found 
in  him  their  ablest  annalist.  The  most  gloomy 
phases  of  life  are  described  in  his  tales  with 
an  integrity  that  has  rendered  them  almost  as 
imposing  as  a  tragedy.  The  interest  awaken- 
ed by  his  pictures  is  often  fearful,  merely 
from  their  appalling  truth  and  touching  mi- 
nuteness. He  was  a  mann<rist,  and  some  of 
the  features  of  his  mannerism — his  monoto- 
nous versification,  and  minute  portraitures  of 
worthless  characters,  with  their  rude  jests  and 
familiar  moralizing — are  unpleasing  ;  but  his 
powerful  and  graphic  delineations  of  humble 
life,  his  occasional  touches  of  deepest  tender- 
ness, and  the  profoundness  of  his  wisdom, 
mark  not  less  strongly  than  these  blemishes, 
all  that  he  wrote,  nnd  will  keep  green  his 
reputation  while  the  world  we  live  in  is  the 
scene  of  sin  and  suffering. 


STANZAS. 

LET  me  not  have  this  gloomy  view 

About  my  room,  around  my  bed  ; 
But  morning  roses,  wet  with  dew, 

To  cool  my  burning  brows  instead. 
As  flowers  that  once  in  Eden  grew, 

Let  them  their  fragrant  spirits  shed ; 
And  every  day  the  sweets  renew, 

Till  I,  a  fading  flower,  am  dead. 
3 


Oh  !  let  the  herbs  I  loved  to  rear 

Give  to  my  sense  their  perfumed  breath ; 
Let  them  be  placed  about  my  bier, 

And  grace  the  gloomy  house  of  death. 
I'll  have  my  grave  beneath  a  hill, 

Where  only  Lucy's  self  shall  know ; 
Where  runs  the  pure  pellucid  rill 

Upon  its  gravelly  bed  below  : 
There  violets  on  the  borders  blow, 

And  insects  their  soft  light  display, — 
B2  17 


18 


GEORGE    CRABBE. 


69 


Till,  as  the  morning  sunbeams  glow, 
The  cold  phosphoric  fires  decay. 

That  is  the  grave  to  Lucy  shown, — 

The  soil  a  pure  and  silver  sand, 
The  green,  cold  moss  above  it  grown, 

Unpluck'd  of  all  but  maiden  hand : 
In  virgin  earth,  till  then  unturn'd, 

There  let  my  maiden  form  be  laid, 
Nor  let  my  changed  clay  be  spurn'd, 

Nor  for  new  guest  that  bed  be  made. 

There  will  the  lark, — the  lamb,  in  sport, 

In  air, — on  earth, — securely  play, 
And  Lucy  to  my  grave  resort, 

As  innocent, — but  not  so  gay. 
I  will  not  have  the  churchyard  ground, 

With  bones  all  black  and  ugly  grown, 
To  press  my  shivering  body  round, 

Or  on  my  wasted  limbs  be  thrown. 

With  ribs  and  skulls  I  will  not  sleep, 

In  clammy  beds  of  cold  blue  clay, 
Through  which  the  ringed  earth-worms  creep ; 

And  on  the  shrouded  bosom  prey; 
I  will  not  have  the  bell  proclaim 

When  those  sad  marriage  rites  begin, — 
Ar.d  boys,  without  regard  or  shame, 

Press  the  vile  mouldering  masses  in. 

S;iy  not,  it  is  beneath  my  care ; 

I  c.innot  those  cold  truths  allow : — 
These  thoughts  may  not  afflict  me  there, 

But,  oh  !  they  vex  and  tease  me  now. 
R  use  not  a  turf,  nor  set  a  stone, 

That  man  a  maiden's  grave  may  trace ; 
But  thou,  my  Lucy,  come  alone, 

And  let  affection  find  the  place. 

Oh !  take  me  from  a  world  I  hate, — 

Men  cruel,  selfish,  sensual,  cold ; 
And,  in  some  pure  and  blessed  state, 

Let  me  my  sister  minds  behold  : 
From  gross  and  sordid  views  refined, 

Our  heaven  of  spotless  love  to  share, — 
For  only  generous  souls  design'd, 

And  not  a  man  to  meet  us  there. 


RECONCILIATION. 

Mr  Damon  was  the  first  to  wake 

The  gentle  flame  that  cannot  die  ; 
My  Damon  is  the  last  to  take 

The  faithful  bosom's  softest  sigh  : 
The  life  between  is  nothing  worth, 

Oh  !  cast  it  from  my  thought  away  ; 
Think  of  the  day  that  gave  it  birth, 

And  this,  its  sweet  returning  day. 

Buried  be  all  that  has  been  done. 

Or  say  that  naught  is  done  amiss ; 
For  who  the  dangerous  path  can  shun 

In  such  bewildering  world  as  this? 
But  love  can  every  fault  forgive, 

Or  with  a  tender  look  reprove; 
And  now  let  naught  in  memory  live, 

But  that  we  meet,  and  that  we  love. 


WOMAN. 

PLACE  the  white  man  on  Afric's  coast, 

Whose  swarthy  sons  in  blood  delight, 
Who  of  their  scorn  to  Europe  boast, 

And  paint  their  very  demons  white : 
There,  while  the  sterner  sex  disdains 

To  soothe  the  woes  they  cannot  feel, 
Woman  will  strive  to  heal  his  paina, 

And  weep  for  those  she  cannot  heal. 
Hers  is  warm  pity's  sacred  glow, — 

From  all  her  stores  she  bears  a  part ; 
And  bids  the  spring  of  hope  rcflow, 

That  languish'd  in  the  fainting  heart. 
"  What  though  so  pale  his  haggard  face, 

So  sunk  and  sad  his  looks," — she  cries : 
"And  far  unlike  our  nobler  race, 

With  crisped  locks  and  rolling  eyes ; 
Yet  misery  marks  him  of  our  kind, — 

We  see  him  lost,  alone,  afraid  ! 
And  pangs  of  body,  griefs  in  mind, 

Pronounce  him  man,  and  ask  our  aid. 
"  Perhaps  in  some  far  distant  shore 

There  are  who  in  these  forms  delight; 
Whose  milky  features  please  them  more 

Than  ours  of  jet,  thus  burnish'd  bright ; 
Of  such  may  be  his  weeping  wife, 

Such  children  for  their  sire  may  call ; 
And  if  we  spare  his  ebbing  life, 

Our  kindness  may  preserve  them  all." 
Thus  her  compassion  woman  shows ; 

Beneath  the  line  her  acts  are  these ; 
Nor  the  wide  waste  of  Lapland  snowg 

Can  her  warm  flow  of  pity  freeze ; — 
"  From  some  sad  land  the  stranger  comes, 

Where  joys  like  ours  are  never  found  ; 
Let 's  soothe  him  in  our  happy  homes, 

Where  freedom  sits,  with  plenty  crown'd. 
"  'Tis  good  the  fainting  soul  to  cheer, 

To  see  the  famish'd  stranger  fed  ; 
To  milk  for  him  the  mother-deer, 

To  smooth  for  him  the  furry  bed. 
The  powers  above  our  Lapland  bless 

With  good  no  other  people  know ; 
T'  enlarge  the  joys  that  we  possess, 

By  feeling  those  that  we  bestow  !" 
Thus,  in  extremes  of  cold  and  heat, 

Where  wandering  man  may  trace  his  kind ; 
Wherever  grief  and  want  retreat, 

In  woman  they  compassion  find  : 
She  makes  the  female  breast  her  seat, 

And  dictates  mercy  to  the  mind. 

Man  may  the  sterner  virtues  know, 

Determined  justice,  truth  severe ; 
But  female  hearts  with  pity  glow, 

And  woman  holds  affliction  dear: 
For  guiltless  woes  her  sorrows  flow, 

And  suffering  vice  compels  her  tear, — 
'Tis  hers  to  soothe  the  ills  below, 

And  bid  life's  fairer  views  appear. 
To  woman's  gentle  kind  we  owe 

What  comforts  and  delights  us  here  ; 
They  its  rrny  hopes  on  youth  bestow, 

And  care  they  soothe — and  age  they  cheer. 


GEORGE    CRABBE. 


THE   WRETCHED  MIND. 

TH'  unhappy  man  was  found, 
The  spirit  settled,  but  the  reason  drown'd  ; 
And  all  the  dreadful  tempest  died  away, 
To  the  dull  stillness  of  the  misty  day  ! 

And  now  his  freedom  he  attain'd — if  free 
The  lost  to  reason,  truth,  and  hope,  can  be ; 
The  playful  children  of  the  place  he  meets ; 
Playful  with  them  he  rambles  through  the  streets  ; 
In  all  they  need,  his  stronger  arm  he  lends, 
And  his  lost  mind  to  these  approving  friends. 

That  gentle  maid,  whom  once  the  youth  had 
Is  now  with  mild  religious  pity  moved ;       [loved, 
Kindly  she  chides  his  boyish  flights,  while  he 
Will  for  a  moment  fix'd  and  pensive  be  ; 
And  as  she  trembling  speaks,  his  lively  eyes 
Explore  her  looks,  he  listens  to  her  sighs;     [vade 
Charm'd  by  her  voice,  the  harmonious  sounds  in- 
His  clouded  mind,  and  for  a  time  persuade : 
Like  a  pleased  infant,  who  has  newly  caught, 
From  the  maternal  glance,  a  gleam  of  thought ; 
H  ;  stands  enrnpt,  the  half-known  voice  to  hear, 
An  1  shirts,  half-conscious,  at  the  falling  tear! 

Rarely  from  town,  nor  then  unwatch'd,  he  goes, 
In  darker  mood,  as  if  to  hide  his  woes ; 
But, soon  returning, with  impatience  seeks  [speaks; 
His  youthful  fru-rnis.  and  shouts,  and  sings,  and 
Speaks  a  wild  speech,  with  action  all  as  wild — 
The  children's  leader,  and  himself  a  child ; 
He  spins  their  top,  or,  at  their  bidding,  bends 
His  back,  while  o'er  it  leap  his  laughing  friends; 
Simple  and  weak,  he  acts  the  boy  once  more, 
And  heedless  children  call  him  Silly  Shore. 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  CONDEMNED. 

WHEN  first  I  came 

Within  his  view,  I  fancied  there  was  shame, 
I  judged  resentment ;  I  mistook  the  air — 
These  fainter  passions  live  not  with  despair  ; 
Or  but  exist  and  die : — Hope,  fear,  and  love, 
Joy,  doubt,  and  hate,  may  other  spirits  move, 
But  touch  not  his,  who  every  waking  hour 
Has  one  fix'd  dread,  and  always  feels  its  power. 
He  takes  his  tasteless  food;  and,  when  'tis  done, 
Counts  up  his  meals,  now  lessen'd  by  that  one ; 
For  expectation  is  on  time  intent, 
Whether  he  brings  us  joy  or  punishment. 

Yes  !  e'en  in  sleep  th'  impressions  all  remain  ; 
He  hears  the  sentence,  and  he  feels  the  chain ; 
He  seems  the  place  for  that  sad  act  to  see, 
And  dreams  the  very  thirst  which  then  will  be ! 
A  priest  attends — it  seems  the  one  he  knew 
In  his  best  days,  beneath  whose  care  he  grew. 

At  this  his  terrors  take  a  sudden  flight — 
He  sees  his  native  village  with  delight; 
The  house,  the  chamber,  where  he  once  array'd 
His  youthful  person  ;  where  he  knelt  and  pray'd  : 
Th'-n  too  the  comforts  he  onjoy'd  at  home, 
The  days  of  joy  ;  the;  joys  themselves  are  come  ; — 


The  hours  of  innocence;  the  timid  look 
Of  his  loved  maid,  when  first  her  hand  he  took 
And  told  his  hope ;  her  trembling  joy  appears, 
Her  forced  reserve,  and  his  retreating  fears. 

"  Yes  !  all  are  with  him  now,  and  all  the  while 
Life's  early  prospects  and  his  Fanny  smile : 
Then  come  his  sister  and  his  village  friend, 
And  he  will  now  the  sweetest  moments  spend 
Life  has  to  yield  : — No  !  never  will  he  find 
Again  on  earth  such  pleasure  in  his  mind. 
He  goes  through  shrubby  walks  these  friends  among, 
Love  in  their  looks  and  pleasure  on  their  tongue. 
Pierced  by  no  crime,  and  urged  by  no  desire 
For  more  than  true  and  honest  hearts  require, 
They  feel  the  calm  delight,  and  thus  proceed 
Through  the  green  lane, — then  linger  in  the  mead, — 
Stray  o'er  the  heath  in  all  its  purple  bloom, 
And  pluck  the  blossom  where  the  wild  bees  hum  ; 
Then  through  thebroomy  bound  with  ease  they  pass, 
And  press  the  sandy  sheep-walk's  slender  grass, 
Where  dwarfish  flowers  among  the  gorse  are  spread, 
And  the  lamb  browses  by  the  linnet's  bed/  [way 
Then  'cross  the  bounding  brook  they  make  their 
O'er  its  rough  bridge — and  there  behold  the  bay  ! — 
The  ocean  smiling  to  the  fervid  sun — 
The  waves  that  faintly  fall  and  slowly  run — 
The  ships  at  distance,  and  the  boats  at  hand : 
And  now  they  walk  upon  the  sea-side  sand, 
Counting  the  number,  and  what  kind  they  he, 
Ships  softly  sinking  in  the  sleepy  sea  : 
Now  arm  in  arm,  now  parted,  they  behold 
The  glittering  waters  on  the  shingles  roll'd : 
The  timid  girls,  half-dreading  their  design, 
Dip  the  small  foot  in  the  retarded  brine,         [flow, 
And  search  for  crimson  weeds,  which  spreading 
Or  lie  like  pictures  on  the  sand  below  ; 
With  all  those  bright  red  pebbles,  that  the  sun 
Through  the  small  waves  so  softly  shines  upon  ; 
And  those  live-lucid  jellies  which  the  eye 
Delights  to  trace  as  they  swim  glittering  by  : 
Pearl-shells  and  rubied  star-fish  they  admire, 
And  will  arrange  above  the  parlour  fire — 
Tokens  of  bliss !" 


A  SEA  FOG. 

WHEN  all  you  see  through  densest  fog  is  seen  ; 
When  you  can  hear  the  fishers  near  at  hand 
Distinctly  speak,  yet  see  not  where  they  stand ; 
Or  sometimes  them  and  not  their  boat  discern, 
Or,  half-conceal'd,  some  figure  at  the  stern ; 
Boys  who,  on  shore,  to  sea  the  pebble  cast, 
Will  hear  it  strike  against  the  viewless  mast; 
While  the  stern  boatman  growls  his  fierce  disdain, 
At  whom  he  knows  not,  whom  he  threats  in  vain. 

'Tis  pleasant  then  to  view  the  nets  float  past, 
Net  after  net,  till  you  have  seen  the  last ; 
And  as  you  wait  till  all  beyond  you  slip, 
A  boat  comes  gliding  from  an  anchor'd  ship, 
Breaking  the  silence  with  the  dipping  oar, 
And  their  own  tones,  as  labouring  for  the  shore ; 
Those  measured  tones  with  which  the  scene  agree, 
And  give  a  sadness  to  serenity. 


20 


GEORGE    CRABBE. 


THE  SUDDEN  DEATH  AND  FUNERAL. 

THEX  died  lamented,  in  the  strength  of  life, 
A  valued  mother  and  a  faithful  wife, 
Call'd  not  away,  when  time  had   loosed  each  hold 
On  the  fond  heart,  and  each  desire  grew  cold; 
But  when,  to  all  that  knit  us  to  our  kind, 
She  felt  fast  bound  as  charity  can  bind  ; — 
Not  when  the  ills  of  age,  its  pain,  its  care, 
The  drooping  spirit  for  its  fate  prepare ; 
And,  each  affection  failing,  leaves  the  heart 
Loosed  from  life's  charm,  and  willing  to  depart ; — 
But  all  her  ties  the  strong  invader  broke, 
In  all  their  strength,  by  one  tremendous  stroke ! 
Sudden  and  swift  the  eager  pest  came  on, 
And  terror  grew,  till  every  hope  was  gone : 
Still  those  around  appear'd  for  hope  to  seek  ! 
But  view'd  the  sick,  and  were  afraid  to  speak. — 

Slowly  they  bore,  with  solemn  step,  the  dead, 
When  grief  grew  loud  and  bitter  tears  were  shed': 
My  part  began  ;  a  crowd  drew  near  the  place, 
Awe  in  each  eye,  alarm  in  every  face; 
So  swift  the  ill,  and  of  so  fierce  a  kind, 
That  fear  with  pity  mingled  in  each  mind ; 
Friends  with  the  husband  came  their  griefs  to  blend; 
For  good-man  Frankford  was  to  all  a  friend. 
The  last-born  boy  they  held  above  the  bier, 
He  knew  not  grief,  but  cries  express'd  his  fear ; 
Each  different  age  and  sex  reveal'd  its  pain, 
In  now  a  louder,  now  a  lower  strain ; 
While  the  meek  father,  listening  to  their  tones, 
Swell'd  the  full  cadence  of  the  grief  by  groans. 

The  elder  sister  strove  her  pangs  to  hide, 
And  soothing  words  to  younger  minds  applied : 
"  Be  still,  be  patient,"  oft  she  strove  to  say  ; 
But  fail'd  as  oft,  and  weeping  turn'd  away. 

Curious  and  sad,  upon  the  fresh-dug  hill, 
The  village  lads  stood  melancholy  still ; 
And  idle  children,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
As  nature  guided,  took  the  tone  of  wo. 


THE  DEATH  OF  RUTH.* 

SHE  left  her  infant  on  the  Sunday  morn, 
A  creature  doom'd  to  shame  !  in  sorrow  born. 
She  came  not  home  to  share  our  humble  meal, — 
Her  father  thinking  what  his  child  would  feel 
From  his  hard  sentence ! — Still  she  came  not  home, 
The  night  grew  dark,  and  yet  she  was  not  come  ! 
The  east-wind  roar'd,  the  sea  return 'd  the  sound, 
And  the  rain  fell  as  if  the  world  were  drown'd : 
There  were  no  lights  without,  and  my  good  man, 
To  kindness  frighten'd,  with  a  groan  began 
To  talk  of  Ruth,  and  pray  !  and  then  he  took 
The  Bible  down,  and  read  the  holy  book : 

*  Ruth  is  betrothed — something  more  than  betrothed — 
to  a  young  sailnr,  who,  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  is  carried 
relentlessly  off  by  «i  press-gang,  and  afterward  slain  in 
battle.  A  canting,  hypocritical  weaver  afterward  becomes 
a  suitor  of  the  widowed  bride,  and  her  father  urges  her 
with  severity  to  wed  the  missioned  suiter.  The  above 
extract  is  from  the  conclusion  of  the  story,  in  the  "  Tales 
of  the  Hall."  The  heroine  has  promised  to  give  her 
answer  on  Sunday. 


For  he  had  learning  :  and  when  that  was  done, 
We  sat  in  silence — whither  could  we  run  1 
We  said — and  then  rush'd  frighten'd  from  the  door, 
For  we  could  bear  our  own  conceit  no  more : 
We  call'd  on  neighbours — there  she  had  not  been  ; 
We  met  some  wanderers — ours  they  had  not  seen  : 
We  hurried  o'er  the  beach,  both  north  and  south, 
Then  join'd,  and  wander'd  to  our  haven's  mouth : 
Where  rush'd  the  falling  waters  wildly  out, 
I  scarcely  heard  the  good  man's  fearful  shout, 
Who  saw  a  something  on  the  billow  ride, 
And — Heaven  have  mercy  on  our  sins!  he  cried, 
It  is  my  child  ! — and  to  the  present  hour 
So  he  believes — and  spirits  have  the  power ! 

And  she  was  gone!   the  waters  wide  and  deep 
Roll'd  o'er  her  body  as  she  lay  asleep  ! 
She  heard  no  more  the  angry  waves  and  wind, 
She  heard  no  more  the  threatening  of  mankind ; 
Wrapt  in  dark  weeds,  the  refuse  of  the  storm, 
To  the  hard  rock  was  borne  her  comely  form  ! 

Butoh  !  what  storm  was  in  that  mind  !  whatstrife, 
That  could  compel  her  to  lay  down  her  life  ! 
For  she  was  seen  within  the  sea  to  wade, 
By  one  at  distance,  when  she  first  had  pray'd; 
Then  to  a  rock  within  the  hither  shoal, 
Softly,  and  with  a  fearful  step,  she  stole ; 
Then,  when  she  gain'd  it,  on  the  top  she  stood 
A  moment  still — and  dropt  into  the  flood  ! 
The  man  cried  loudly,  but  he  cried  in  vain, — 
She  heard  not  then — she  never  heard  again  ! 


A  GROUP  OF  GIPSIES. 

A    WIDE 

And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  either  side  ; 
Where,  lo !  a  hollow  on  the  left  appear'd, 
And  there  a  gipsy  tribe  their  tent  had  rear'd  ; 
'T  was  open  spread,  to  catch  the  morning  sun, 
And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun, 
When  two  brown  boys  just  left  their  grassy  seat, 
The  early  traveller  with  their  prayers  to  greet: 
While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand, 
He  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand ; 
Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  sly, 
Prepared  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try  : 
Sudden  a  look  of  languor  he  descries, 
And  wcll-feign'd  apprehension  in  her  eyes  ; 
Train'd,  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  face, 
He  mark'd  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race ; 
When  a  light  laugh  and  roguish  leer  express'd 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast ! 
Within,  the  father,  who  from  fences  nigh 
Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire's  supply,      [hy  : 
Watch'd  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  dejected 
On  ragged  rug,  just  borrow'd  from  the  bed, 
And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed, 
In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dress'd, 
Reclined  the  wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast ; 
In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  romain'd, 
Of  vigour  palsied  and  of  beauty  stain'd  ; 
Her  blood-shot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate 
Were  wrathful  turn'd,  and  seem'd  her  wants  to 
state, 


GEORGE    CRABBE. 


21 


Cursing  his  tardy  aid — her  mother  there 
With  gipsy-state  engross'd  the  only  chair ; 
Solemn  and  dull  her  look  :  with  such  she  stands, 
And  reads  the  milk-maid's  fortune,  in  her  hands 
Tracing  the  lines  of  life ;  assumed  through  years, 
Each  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wears ; 
With  hard  and  savage  eye  she  views  the  food, 
And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood  ! 
Last  in  the  group,  the  worn-out  grandsire  sits, 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits ; 
Useless,  despised,  his  worthless  labours  done, 
And  half-protected  by  the  vicious  son, 
Who  half-supports  him  !     He,  with  heavy  glance, 
Views  the  young  ruffians  who  around  him  dance ; 
And,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appears 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years ;   [ceit, 
Through  what  strange  course  of  misery,  vice,  de- 
Must  wildly  wander  each  unpractised  cheat ; 
What  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and  pain, 
Sport  of  fierce  passions,  must  each  child  sustain — 
Ere  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end, 
Without  a  hope,  a  comfort,  or  a  friend ! 


THE  POOR-HOUSE. 

YOUR  plan  I  love  not: — with  a  number  you 
Have  placed  your  poor,  your  pitiable  few ; 
There,  in  one  house,  for  all  their  lives  to  be, 
The  pauper-palace  which  they  hate  to  see ! 
That  giant  building,  that  high  bounding  wall, 
Those  bare-worn  walks,  that  lofty  thundering  hall ! 
That  large,  loud  clock,  which  tolls  each  dreaded 

hour, 

Those  gates  and  locks,  and  all  those  signs  of  power: 
It  is  a  prison  with  a  milder  name, 
Which  few  inhabit  without  dread  or  shame. — 

Alas!  their  sorrows  in  their  bosoms  dwell ; 
They've  much  to  suffer,  but  have  naught  to  tell: 
They  have  no  evil  in  the  place  to  state, 
And  dare  not  say,  it  is  the  house  they  hate  : 
They  own  there's  granted  all  such  place  can  give, 
But  live  repining. — for  'tis  there  they  live  ! 

Grandsires  are  there,  who  now  no  more  must  see, 
No  more  must  nurse  upon  the  trembling  knee, 
The  lost,  loved  daughter's  infant  progeny  ! 
Like  death's  dread  mansion,  this  allows  not  place 
For  joyful  meetings  of  a  kindred  race. 

Is  not  the  matron  there,  to  whom  the  son 
Was  wont  at  each  declining  day  to  run  ; 
He  (when  his  toil  was  over)  gave  delight, 
By  lifting  up  the  latch,  and  one  "  Good  night  ?" 
Yes  she  is  here;  but  nightly  to  her  door 
The  son,  still  labouring,  can  return  no  more. 

Widows  are  here,  who  in  their  huts  were  left, 
Of  husbands,  children,  plenty,  ease,  bereft; 
Yet  all  that  grief  within  the  humble  shed 
Was  soften'd,  soften'd  in  the  humble  bed  : 
But  here,  in  all  its  force,  remains  the  grief, 
And  not  one  softening  object  for  relief. 

Who  can,  when  here,  the  social  neighbour  meet? 
Who  learn  the  story  current  in  the  street  1 
Who  to  the  long-known  intimate  impart 
Facts  they  have  learn'd,  or  feelings  of  the  heart] — 


They  talk,  indeed ;  but  who  can  choose  a  friend, 
Or  seek  companions,  at  their  journey's  end  7 — 

What  if  no  grievous  fears  their  lives  annoy, 
Is  it  not  worse,  no  prospects  to  enjoy  ? 
'Tis  cheerless  living  in  such  bounded  view, 
With  nothing  dreadful,  but  with  nothing  new; 
Nothing  to  bring  them  joy,  to  make  them  weep — 
The  day  itself  is,  like  the  night,  asleep : 
Or  on  the  sameness  if  a  break  be  made, 
'Tis  by  some  pauper  to  his  grave  convey'd ; 
By  smuggled  news  from  neighbouring  village  told, 
News  never  true,  or  truth  a  twelvemonth  old  ! 
By  some  new  inmate  doom'd  with  them  to  dwell, 
Or  justice  come  to  see  that  all  goes  well ; 
Or  change  of  room,  or  hour  of  leave  to  crawl 
On  the  black  footway  winding  with  the  wall, 
Till  the  stern  bell  forbids,  or  master's  sterner  call. 

Here  the  good  pauper,  losing  all  the  praise 
By  worthy  deeds  acquired  in  better  days, 
Breathes  a  few  months;  then,  to  his  chamber  led, 
Expires — while  strangers  prattle  round  his  bed. 


NEWSPAPERS. 

Now  be  their  arts  display 'd,  how  first  they  choose 
A  cause  and  party,  as  the  bard  his  muse ; 
Inspired  by  these,  with  clamorous  zeal  they  cry, 
And  through  the  town  their  dreams  and  omens  fly  : 
So  the  sibylline  leaves  were  blown  about, 
Disjointed  scraps  of  fate  involved  in  doubt ; 
So  idle  dreams,  the  journals  of  the  niejht, 
Are  right  and  wrong  by  turns,  and  mingle  wrong 

with  right. 

Some,  champions  for  the  rights  that  prop  the  crown, 
Some,  sturdy  patriots,  sworn  to  pull  them  down ; 
Some,  neutral  powers,  with  secret  forces  fraught, 
Wishing  for  war,  but  willing  to  be  bought: 
While  some  to  every  side  and  party  go, 
Shift  every  friend,  and  join  with  every  foe ; 
Like  sturdy  rogues  in  privateers,  they  strike 
This  side  and  that,  the  foes  of  both  alike ; 
A  traitor-crew,  who  thrive  in  troubled  times, 
Fear'd  for  their  force,  and  courted  for  their  crimes. 

Chief  to  the  prosperous  side  the  numbers  sail, 
Fickle  and  false,  they  veer  with  every  gale ; 
As  birds  that  migrate  from  a  freezing  shore, 
In  search  of  warmer  climes,  come  skimming  o'er, 
Some  bold  adventurers  first  prepare  to  try 
The  doubtful  sunshine  of  the  distant  sky  ; 
But  soon  the  growing  summer's  certain  sun 
Wins  more  and  more,  till  all  at  last  are  won  : 
So,  on  the  early  prospect  of  disgrace, 
Fly  in  vast  troops  this  apprehensive  race ; 
Instinctive  tribes  !   their  failing  food  they  dread, 
And  buy,  with  timely  change,  their  future  bread. 

Such  are  our  guides  :  how  many  a  peaceful  head, 
Born  to  be  still,  have  they  to  wrangling  led  ! 
How  many  an  honest  zealot  stolen  from  trade, 
And  factious  tools  of  pious  pastors  made  ! 
With  clews  like  these  they  tread  the  maze  of  state, 
These  oracles  explore,  to  learn  our  fate; 
Pleased  with  the  guides  who  can  so  well  deceive, 
Who  cannot  lie  so  fast  as  they  believe. 


WILLIAM    SO  THE  BY. 


MR.  SOTHEBY  was  born  in  London  in  the 
autumn  of  1757.  He  was  educated  at  Har- 
row, and  on  entering  his  eighteenth  year  he 
followed  the  example  of  his  father,  a  colonel 
in  the  Guards,  by  purchasing  a  commission 
in  the  Tenth  Dragoons.  In  1780  he  quitted 
the  army,  and  bought  a  beautiful  seat  near 
Southampton,  where  for  a  considerable  period 
he  devoted  his  time  to  the  study  of  the  classics 
and  the  cultivation  of  poetry.  On  removing 
to  London  in  1798  he  was  elected  a  member 
of  the  Royal  Society,  and  soon  after  published 
his  translation  of  WIELAND'S  Oberon.  In  1816 
he  visited  the  Continent,  and  while  abroad 


j  wrote  the  series  of  poems  subsequently  pub- 
lished under  the  general  title  of  Italy,  which 
is  the  best  of  his  numerous  productions.  The 
last  of  his  works  was  a  translation  of  Homer, 
commenced  after  he  had  entered  upon  his 
seventieth  year.  He  died  in  London  6n  the 
thirtieth  of  December,  1833.  , 

Mr.  SOTHEBY  was  a  man  of  rare  scholar- 
ship, deeply  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  classi- 
cal literature,  and  his  numerous  writings, 
consisting  of  translations  from  the  Greek, 
Latin,  and  German,  and  original  English 
poems,  ill  deserve  the  neglect  to  which  they 
have  recently  been  consigned. 


ROME. 

I  SAW  the  ages  backward  roll'd, 
The  scenes  long  past  restore  : 
Scenes  that  Evander  bade  his  guest  behold, 
When  first  the  Trojan  slept  on  Tiber's  shore — 
The  shepherds  in  the  forum  pen  their  fold  ; 
And  the  wild  herdsman,  on  his  untamed  steed, 
Goads  with  prone  spear  the  heifer's  foaming  speed, 
Where  Rome,  in  second  infancy,  once  more 
Sleeps  in  her  cradle.     But — in  that  drear  waste, 
In  that  rude  desert,  when  the  wild  goat  sprung 
From  cliff  to  cliff,  and  the  Tarpeian  rock 
Lour'd  o'er  the  untended  flock, 
And  eagles  on  its  crest  their  aerie  hung: 
And  when  fierce  gales  bow'd  the  high  pines,  when 

blazed 

The  lightning,  and  the  savage  in  the  storm 
Some  unknown  godhead  heard,  and  awe-struck, 

gazed 

On  Jove's  imagined  form  : — 
And  in  that  desert,  when  swoln  Tiber's  wave 
Went  forth  the  twins  to  save, 
Their  reedy  cradle  floating  on  his  flood  : 
While  yet  the  infants  on  the  she-wolf  clung, 
While  yet  they  fearless  play'd  her  brow  beneath, 
And  mingled  with  their  food 
The  spirit  of  her  blood, 
As  o'er  them  seen  to  breathe 
With  fond  reverted  neck  she  hung, 
And  lick'd  in  turn  each  babe,  and  form'd  with  fos- 
tering tongue  : 

And  when  the  founder  of  imperial  Rome 
Fix'd  on  the  robber  hill,  from  earth  aloof, 
His  predatory  home, 

And  hung  in  triumph  round  bis  straw-tbatch'd  roof 
The  wolf  skin,  and  huge  boar  tusks,  and  the  pride 
Of  branching  antlers  wide  : 
And  tower'd  in  giant  strength,  and  sent  sifnr 
His  voice,  that  on  the  mountain  echoes  roll'd, 
Stern  preluding  the  war: 
H 


And  when  the  shepherds  left  their  peaceful  fold, 
And  from  the  wild  wood  lair,  and  rocky  den, 
Round  their  bold  chieftain  rush'd  strange  forms  of 

barbarous  men  : 

Then  might  be  seen  by  the  presageful  eye 
The  vision  of  a  rising  realm  unfold, 
And  temples  roof'd  with  gold. 
And  in  the  gloom  of  that  remorseless  time, 
When  Rome  the  Sabine  seized,  might  be  foreseen 
In  the  first  triumph  of  successful  crime, 
The  shadowy  arm  of  one  of  giant  birth 
Forging  a  chain  for  earth  : 

And  though  slow  ages  roll'd  their  course  between, 
The  form  as  of  a  Caesar,  when  he  led 
His  war-worn  legions  on, 

Troubling  the  pastoral  stream  of  peaceful  Rubicon. 
Such  might  o'er  clay-built  Rome  have  been  foretold 
By  word  of  human  wisdom.     But — what  word, 
Save  from  thy  lip,  Jehovah's  prophet !  heard, 
When  Rome  was  marble,  and  her  temples  gold, 
And  the  globe  Csesar's  footstool,  who,  when  Rome 
View'd  the  incommunicable  name  divine 
Link  a  Faustina  to  an  Antonine 
On  their  polluted  temple ;  who  but  tbou, 
The  prophet  of  the  Lord  !  what  word,  save  thine, 
Rome's  utter  desolation  had  denounced  ? 
Yet,  ere  that  destined  time, 
The  love-lute,  and  the  viol,  song,  and  mirth, 
Ring  from  her  palace  roofs.     Hear'st  thou  not  yet, 
Metropolis  of  earth ! 

A  voice  borne  back  on  every  passing  wind, 
Wherever  man  has  birth, 
One  voice,  as  from  the  lip  of  human  kind, 
The  echo  of  thy  fame? — Flow  they  not  yet, 
As  flow'd  of  yore,  down  each  successive  age 
The  chosen  of  the  world,  on  pilgriin;i^«-, 
To  commune  with  thy  wrecks,  and  works  sublime, 

Where  genius  dwells  enthroned  ] 

Rome !   thou  art  doom'd  to  perish,  and  thy  days, 
Like  mortal  man's,  are  number'd:   number'd  all, 
Ere  each  fleet  hour  decays. 


WILLIAM    SOTHEBY. 


Though  pride  yet  haunt  thy  palaces,  though  art 
Thy  sculptured  marbles  animate ;  [gate ; 

Though  thousands  and  ten  thousands  throng  thy 
Though  kings  and  kingdoms  with  thy  idol  mart 
Yet  traffic,  and  thy  throned  priest  adore  : 
Thy  second  reign  shall  pass, — pass  like  thy  reign 
of  yore. 


TIVOLI. 

SPIHIT  !  who  lovest  to  live  unseen, 

By  brook  or  pathless  dell, 
Where  wild  woods  burst  the  rocks  between, 
And  floods,  in  streams  of  silver  sheen, 

Gush  from  their  flinty  cell ! 

Or  where  the  ivy  waves  her  woof, 

And  climbs  the  crag  alone,. 
Haunts  the  cool  grotto,  daylight  proof, 
Where  loitering  drops  that  wear  the  roof 

Turn  all  beneath  to  stone. 

Shield  me  from  summer's  blaze  of  day, 

From  noon-tide's  fiery  gale, 
And,  as  thy  waters  round  me  play, 
Beneath  the  o'ershadowing  cavern  lay, 

Till  twilight  spreads  her  veil. 

Then  guide  me  where  the  wandering  moon 

Rests  on  Maecenas'  wall, 
And  echoes  at  night's  solemn  noon 
In  Tivoli's  soft  shades  attune 

The  peaceful  waterfall. 

Again  they  float  before  my  sight 

The  bower,  the  flood,  the  glade; 
Again  on  yon  romantic  height 
The  Sybil's  temple  towers  in  light, 
Above  the  dark  cascade. 

Down  the  steep  cliff  I  wind  my  way 

Along  the  dim  retreat, 
And,  'mid  the  torrents'  deafening  bray 
Dash  from  my  brow  the  foam  away, 

Where  clashing  cataracts  meet. 

And  now  I  leave  the  rocks  below, 

And  issuing  forth  from  night, 
View  on  the  flakes  that  sunward  flow, 
A  thousand  rainbows  round  me  glow, 

And  arch  my  way  with  light. 

Again  the  myrtles  o'er  me  breathe, 
Fresh  flowers  my  path  perfume, 
Round  cliff  and  cave  wild  tendrils  wreathe, 
And  from  the  groves  that  bend  beneath 
Low  trail  their  purple  bloom. 

Thou  grove,  thou  glade  of  Tivoli, 

Dark  flood,  and  rivulet  clear, 
That  wind,  where'er  you  wander  by, 
A  stream  of  beauty  on  the  eye, 

Of  music  on  the  ear  : — 

And  thou.  that,  when  the  wandering  moon 

IlliNned  the  rocky  dell, 
Didst  to  my  charmed  car  attune 
The  echoes  of  night's  solemn  noon — 

Spirit  unseen!  farewell! 


Farewell ! — o'er  many  a  realm  I  go, 

My  natal  isle  to  greet, 
Where  summer  sunbeams  mildly  glow, 
And  sea-winds  health  and  freshness  blow 

O'er  freedom's  hallow'd  seat. 

Yet  there,  to  thy  romantic  spot 

Shall  fancy  oft  retire, 
And  hail  the  bower,  the  stream,  the  grot, 
Where  earth's  sole  lord  the  world  forgot, 

And  Horace  smote  the  lyre. 


THE  GROTTO  OF  EGERIA. 


X  I  forget  that  beauteous  day, 
When,  shelter'd  from  the  burning  beam, 
First  in  thy  haunted  grot  I  lay, 

And  loosed  my  spirit  to  its  dream, 
Beneath  the  broken  arch,  o'erlaid 
With  ivy,  dark  with  many  a  braid, 
That  clasp'd  its  tendrils  to  retain 
The  stone  its  roots  had  writhed  in  twain1? 
No  zephyr  on  the  leaflet  play'd, 
No  bent  grass  bow'd  its  slender  blade, 
The  coiled  snake  lay  slumber-bound  ; 
All  mute,  all  motionless  around, 
Save,  livelier,  while  others  slept, 
The  lizard  on  the  sunbeam  leapt; 
And  louder,  while  the  groves  were  still, 
The  unseen  cigali,  sharp  and  shrill, 
As  if  their  chirp  could  charm  alone 
Tired  noontide  with  its  unison. 

Stranger  !  that  roam'st  in  solitude  ! 
Thou,  too,  'rnid  tangling  bushes  rude, 
Seek  in  the  glen,  yon  heights  between, 
A  rill  more  pure  than  Hippocrene, 
That  from  a  sacred  fountain  fed 
The  stream  that  fill'd  its  marble  bed. 
Its  marble  bed  long  since  is  gone, 
And  the  stray  water  struggles  on, 
Brawling  through  weeds  and  stones  its  way 
There,  when  o'erpower'd  at  blaze  of  day, 
Nature  languishes  in  light, 
Pass  within  the  gloom  of  night, 
Where  the  cool  grot's  dark  arch  o'ershades 
Thy  temples,  and  the  waving  braids 
Of  many  a  fragment  brier  that  weaves 
Its  blossom  through  the  ivy  leaves. 
Thou,  too,  beneath  that  rocky  roof, 
Where  the  moss  mats  its  thickest  woof, 
Shalt  hear  the  gather'd  ice-drops  fall 
Regular,  at  interval, 
Drop  after  drop,  one  after  one, 
Making  music  on  the  stone, 
While  every  drop,  in  slow  decay, 
Wears  the  recumbent  nymph  away. 
Thou,  too,  if  e'er  thy  youthful  ear 
ThrilFd  the  Latian  lay  to  hear, 
Lull'd  to  slumber  in  that  cave, 
Shalt  hail  the  nymph  that  held  the  wave; 
A  goddess,  who  there  deigned  to  meet 
A  mortal  from  Rome's  regal  seat, 
And,  o'er  the  gushing  of  her  fount, 
Mysterious  truths  divine  to  earthly  ear  recount. 


WILLIAM    LISLE    BOWLES. 


WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES  was  born  at  King's 
Sutton  in  Northampshire,  a  village  of  which 
his  father  was  vicar,  in  September,  1762.  He 
took  his  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  in  1792  at 
Trinity  College,  Oxford,  where  he  obtained 
the  chancellor's  prize  for  a  Latin  poem  on  the 
Siege  of  Gibraltar.  He  soon  after  entered  into 
holy  orders,  and  was  appointed  to  a  curacy  in 
Wiltshire,  from  which  he  was  promoted  to 
the  living  of  Dumbledon  in  Gloucestershire, 
and  finally,  in  1803,  to  a  prebend  in  Salisbury 
Cathedral.  We  believe  he  is  still  living  on 
the  rectory  of  Bremhill,  Wilts,  where  for  many 
years  he  performed  the  duties  of  his  office 
with  industrious  zeal,  and  was  much  loved 
and  respected  for  his  piety,  amenity,  and 
genius. 

The  first  publication  of  Mr.  BOWLES,  was  a 
collection  of  Sonnets,  printed  in  1789.  They 
were  well  received,  and  COLERIDGE  speaks  of 
himself  as  having  been  withdrawn  from  peril- 
ous errors  by  the  "  genial  influence  of  a  style 
of  poetry  so  tender  and  yet  so  manly,  so 
natural  and  real,  and  yet  so  dignified  and 


DISCOVERY  OF   MADEIRA. 

SHE  left 

The  Severn's  side,  and  fled  with  him  she  loved 
O'er  the  wide  main  ;  for  he  had  told  her  tales 
Of  happiness  in  distant  lands,  where  care 
Comes  not,  and  pointing  to  the  golden  clouds 
That  shone  above  the  waves,  when  evening  came, 
Whisper'd,  "Oh!  are  there  not  sweet  scenes  of  peace, 
Far  from  the  murmurs  of  this  cloudy  mart, 
Where  gold  alone  bears  sway,  scenes  of  delight, 
Where  Love  may  lay  his  head  upon  the  lap 
Of  Innocence,  and  smile  at  all  the  toil 
Of  the  low-though  ted  throng,  that  place  in  wealth 
Their  only  bliss  ]     Yes,  there  are  scenes  like  these. 
Leave  the  vain  chidings  of  the  world  behind, 
Country,  and  hollow  friends,  and  fly  with  me 
Where  love  and  peace  in  distant  vales  invite. 
What  wouldst  thou  here  1    Oh  shall  thy  beauteous 

look 

Of  mairlen  innocence,  thy  smile  of  youth,  thine  eyes 
Of  tenderness  and  soft  subdued  desire, 
Thy  form,  thy  limbs — oh.  madness  ! — be  the  prey 
Of  a  decrepit  spoiler,  and  for  gold  ] — 

24 


harmonious,"  whose  sadness  always  soothed 

him — 

"like  the  murmuring 

Of  wild  bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of  Spring." 

He  subsequently  published  "Verses  to 
John  Howard  on  his  State  of  the  Prisons  and 
Lazarettos,"  "  Hope,"  "  Coombe  Ellen,"  "  St. 
Michael's  Mount,"  "  A  Collection  of  Poems" 
in  four  volumes,  "  The  Battle  of  the  Nile," 
"The  Sorrows  of  Switzerland,"  "The  Mis- 
sionary," "The  Grave  of  the  Last  Saxon," 
"The  Spirit  of  Discovery  by  Sea,"  (the 
longest  and  best  of  his  works,)  "  The  Little 
Villager's  Verse  Book,"  and  "Scenes  and 
Shadows  of  Days  Departed,"  which  appeared 
in  1837.  He  was  at  one  time  better  known 
as  a  critic  than  as  a  poet,  from  his  cele- 
brated controversy  with  BYRON,  and  others, 
on  the  writings  of  POPE  and  the  "  invariable 
principles"  of  poetry. 

The  sonnets  of  Mr.  BOWLES  are  doubtless 
superior  to  his  other  productions,  but  even  they 
were  never  generally  popular.  He  is  always 
elegant  and  chaste,  and  sometimes  tender,  but 
has  little  imagination  or  earnestness. 


Perish  his  treasure  with  him  !     Haste  with  me, 

We  shall  find  out  some  sylvan  nook,  and  then 

If  thou  shouldst  sometimes  think  upon  these  hills, 

When  they  are  distant  far,  and  drop  a  tear, 

Yes — I  will  kiss  it  from  tby  cheek,  and  clasp 

Thy  angel  beauties  closer  to  my  breast; 

And  while  the  winds  blow  o'er  us,  and  the  sun 

Goes  beautifully  down,  and  thy  soft  cheek 

Reclines  on  mine,  I  will  enfold  thee  thus, 

And  proudly  cry,  My  friend — my  love — my  wife  !" 

So  tempted  he,  and  soon  her  heart  approved, 
Nay  woo'd,  the  blissful  dream  ;  and  oft  at  eve, 
When  the  moon  shone  upon  the  wandering  stream, 
She  paced  the  castle's  battlements,  that  threw 
Beneath  their  solemn  shadow,  and  resign'd 
To  fancy  and  to  tears,  thought  it  most  sweet 
To  wander  o'er  the  world  with  him  she  loved. 
Nor  was  his  birth  ignoble,  for  he  shone 
Mid  England's  gallant  youth  in  Edward's  reign — 
With  countenance  erect,  and  honest  eye 
Commanding,  (yet  .suffused  in  tenderness 
At  times,)  and  smiles  that  like  the  lightning  play'd 
On  his  brown  cheek, — so  nohly  stern  he  stood, — 
Accomplish'd,  generous,  gentle,  brave,  sincere, 


WILLIAM    LISLE    BOWLES. 


25 


Robert  a  Machin.     But  the  sullen  pride 
Of  haughty  D'Arfet  scorn'd  all  other  claim 
To  his  high  heritage,  save  what  the  pomp 
Of  amplest  wealth  and  loftier  lineage  gave. 
Reckless  of  human  tenderness,  that  seeks 
One  loved,  one  honour'd  object,  wealth  alone 
He  worshipp'd ;  and  for  this  he  could  consign 
His  only  child,  his  aged  hope,  to  loathed 
Embraces,  and  a  life  of  tears  !  Nor  here 
His  hard  ambition  ended :  for  he  sought 
By  secret  whispers  of  conspiracies 
His  sovereign  to  abuse,  bidding  him  lift 
His  arm  avenging,  and  upon  a  youth 
Of  promise  close  the  dark  forgotten  gates 
Of  living  sepulture,  and  in  the  gloom 
Inhume  the  slowly-wasting  victim. — 

So 

He  purposed,  but  in  vain  :  the  ardent  youth 
Rescued  her — her  whom  more  than  life  he  loved, 
E'en  when  the  horrid  day  of  sacrifice 
Drew  nigh.     He  pointed  to  the  distant  bark, 
And  while  he  kiss'd  a  stealing  tear  that  fell 
On  her  pale  cheek,  as  trusting  she  reclined 
Her  head  upon  his  breast,  with  ardour  cried, 
"  Be  mine,  be  only  mine  ;  the  hour  invites  ; 
Be  mine,  be  only  mine."     So  won,  she  cast 
A  look  of  last  affection  on  the  towers 
Where  she  had  pass'd  her  infant  days,  that  now 
Shone  to  the  setting  sun — "  I  follow  thee," 
Her  faint  voice  said ;  and  lo  !   where  in  the  air 
A  sail  hangs  tremulous,  and  soon  her  steps 
Ascend  the  vessel's  side :    The  vessel  glides 
Down  the  smooth  current,  as  the  twilight  fades, 
Till  soon  the  woods  of  Severn,  and  the  spot 
Where  D'Arfet's  solitary  turrets  rose, 
Are  lost — a  tear  starts  to  her  eye — she  thinks 
Of  him  whose  gray  head  to  the  earth  shall  bend, 
When  he  speaks  nothing :- — but  be  all,  like  death, 
Forgotten.     Gently  blows  the  placid  breeze, 
And  oh  !  that  now  some  fairy  pinnance  light 
Might  flit  along  the  wave,  (by  no  seen  power 
Directed,  save  when  Love,  a  blooming  boy,      f 
Gather'd  or  spread  with  tender  hand  the  sail,) 
That  now  some  fairy  pinnance,  o'er  the  surge 
Silent,  as  in  a  summer's  dream,  might  waft 
The  passengers  upon  the  conscious  flood 
To  scenes  of  undisturbed  joy. 

But  hark  ! 

The  wind  is  in  the  shrouds — the  cordage  sings 
With  fitful  violence— the  blast  now  swells, 
Now  sinks.    Dread  gloom  invests  the  farther  wave, 
Whose  foaming  toss  alone  is  seen,  beneath 
The  veering  bowsprit. 

O  retire  to  rest,  [cheek 

Maiden,  whose   tender  heart  would   beat,  whose 
Turn  pale  to  see  another  thus  exposed  : — 
Hark  !   the  deep  thunder  louder  p-als — Oh  save — 
The  high  mast  crashes ;  but  the  faithful  arm 
Of  love  is  o'er  thee,  and  thy  anxious  eye, 
Soon  as  the  gray  of  morning  peeps,  shall  view 
Green  Erin's  hills  aspiring  ! 

The  sad  morn 

Comes  forth  :  but  Terror  on  the  sunless  wave 
Still,  like  a  s;';t-iie!i<l,  sit-.,  :m<l  darkly  smiles 
Beneath  the  Hash  that  through  the  struggling  clouds 
4 


Bursts  frequent,  half-revealing  his  scathed  front, 
Above  the  rocking  of  the  waste  that  rolls 
Boundless  around  : — 

No  word  through  the  long  day 
She  spoke: — Another  slowly  came: — No  word 
The  beauteous  drooping  mourner  spoke.  The  sun 
Twelve  times  had  sunk  beneath  the  sullen  surge, 
And  cheerless  rose  again: — Ah,  where  are  now 
Thy  havens,  France  1      But  yet — resign  not  yet — 
Ye  lost  sea-farers — oh,  resign  not  yet 
All  hope — the  storm  is  pass'd  ;  the  drenched  sail 
Shines  in  the  passing  beam  !     Look  up,  and  say, 
"  Heaven,  thou  hast  heard  our  prayers  !" 

And  lo  !  scarce  seen, 

A  distant  dusky  spot  appears ; — they  reach 
An  unknown  shore,  and  green  and  flowery  vales, 
And  azure  hills,  and  silver-gushing  streams, 
Shine  forth,  a  Paradise,  which  Heaven  alone, 
Who  saw  the  silent  anguish  of  despair, 
Could  raise  in  the  waste  wilderness  of  waves. — 
They  gain  the  haven — through  untrodden  scenes, 
Perhaps  untrodden  by  the  foot  of  man 
Since  first  the  earth  arose,  they  wind  :    The  voice 
Of  Nature  hails  them  here  with  music,  sweet, 
As  waving  woods  retired,  or  falling  streams, 
Can  make ;  most  soothing  to  the  weary  heart, 
Doubly  to  those  who,  struggling  with  their  fate, 
And  wearied  long  with  watchings  and  with  grief, 
Sought  but  a  place  of  safety.     All  tilings  here 
Whisper  repose  arid  peace ;  the  very  birds, 
That  mid  the  golden  fruitage  glance  their  plumes, 
The  songsters  of  the  lonely  valley,  sing 
"  Welcome  from  scenes  of  sorrow,  live  with  us." — 

The  wild  wood  opens,  and  a  shady  glen 
Appears,  embower'd  with  mantling  laurels  high, 
That  sloping  shade  the  flowery  valley's  side  ; 
A  lucid  stream,  with  gentle  murmur,  strays 
Beneath  the  umbrageous  multitude  of  leaves, 
Till  gaining,  with  soft  lapse,  the  nether  plain, 
It  glances  light  along  its  yellow  bed. 
The  shaggy  inmates  of  the  forest  lick 
The  feet  of  their  new  guests,  and  gazing  stand. — 
A  beauteous  tree  upshoots  amid  the  glade 
Its  trembling  top;  and  there  upon  the  bank 
They  rest  them,  while  the  heart  o'erflows  with  joy. 

Now  evening,  breathing  richer  odours  sweet, 
Came  down  :  a  softer  sound  the  circling  seas, 
The  ancient  woods  resounded,  while  the  dove, 
Her  murmurs  interposing,  tenderness 
Awaked,  yet  more  endearing,  in  the  hearts 
Of  those  who,  sever'd  far  from  human  kind, 
Woman  and  man,  by  vows  sincere  betrothed, 
Heard  but  the  voice  of  Nature.     The  still  moon 
Arose — they  saw  it  not — cheek  was  to  cheek 
Inclined,  and  unawares  a  stealing  tear 
Witness'd  how  blissful  was  that  hour,  that  seem'd 
Not  of  the  hours  that  time  could  count.     A  kiss 
Stole  on  the  listening  silence ;  never  yet 
Here  heard  :  they  trembled,  e'en  as  if  the  Power 
That  made  the  world,  that  planted  the  first  pair 
In  Paradise,  amid  the  garden  walk'd, — 
This  since  the  fairest  garden  that  the  world 
Has  witness'd,  by  the  fabling  sons  of  Greece 
Hesperian  named,  who  feign'd  the  watchful  guard 
Of  the  scaled  Dragon,  and  the  Golden  Fruit. 
C 


WILLIAM    LISLE    BOWLES. 


Such  was  this  sylvan  Paradise  ;  and  here 
The  loveliest  pair,  from  a  hard  world  remote, 
Upon  each  other's  neck  reclined ;  their  breath 
Alone  was,  heard,  when  the  dove  ceased  on  high 
Her  plaint ;  and  tenderly  their  faithful  arms 
Enfolded  each  the  other. 

Thou,  dim  cloud, 

That  from  the  search  of  men,  these  beauteous  vales 
Hast  closed,  oh  doubly  veil  them !      But,  alas, 
How  short  the  dream  of  human  transport !    Here, 
In  vain  they  built  the  leafy  bower  of  love, 
Or  cull'd  the  sweetest  flowers  and  fairest  fruit. 
The  hours  unheeded  stole  ;  but  ah  !  not  long- — 
Again  the  hollow  tempest  of  the  night       [sound ; 
Sounds  through  the  leaves;  the  inmost  woods  re- 
Slow  comes  the  dawn,  but  neither  ship  nor  sail 
Along  the  rocking  of  the  windy  waste 
Is  seen  :  the  dash  of  the  dark-heaving  wave 
Alone  is  heard.     Start  from  y^ur  bed  of  bliss, 
Poor  victims!  never  more  shall  ve  behold 
if  our  native  vales  again  ;  and  thou,  sweet  child  ! 
Who,  listening  to  the  voice  of  love,  has  left 
Thy  friends,  thy  country, — oh  may  the  wan  hue 
Of  pining  memory,  the  sunk  cheek,  the  eye 
Where  tenderness  yet  dwells,  atone,  (if  love 
Atonement  need,  by  cruelty  and  wrong 
Beset,)  atone  e'en  now  thy  rash  resolves. 
Ah,  fruitless  hope !     Day  after  day  thy  bloom 
Fades,  and  the  tender  lustre  of  thy  eye 
Is  dimm'd  ;  thy  form,  amid  creation,  seems 
The  only  drooping  thing. 

Thy  look  was  soft, 
And  yet  most  animated,  and  thy  step 
Light  as  the  roe's  upon  the  mountains.     Now, 
Thou  sittest  hopeless,  pale,  beneath  the  tree 
That  fann'd  its  joyous  leaves  above  thy  head, 
Where  love  had  deck'd  the  blooming  bower,  and 

strew'd 

The  sweets  of  summer :     Death  is  on  thy  cheek, 
And  thy  chill  hand  the  pressure  scarce  returns 
Of  him,  who,  agonized  and  hopeless,  hangs 
With  tears  and  trembling  o'er  thee.     Spare  the 

sight, — 
She  faints — she  dies  ! — 

He  laid  her  in  the  earth, 
Himself  scarce  living,  and  upon  her  tomb, 
Beneath  the  beauteous  tree  where  they  reclined, 
Placed  the  last  tribute  of  his  earthly  love.     .     .     . 

He  placed  the  rude  inscription  on  her  stone, 
Which  he  with  faltering  hands  had  graved,  and  soon 
Himself  beside  it  sunk — yet  ere  he  died, 
Faintly  he  spoke  ;  "  If  ever  ye  shall  hear, 
Companions  of  my  few  and  evil  days, 
Again  the  convent's  vesper  bells,  O  think 
Of  me  !  and  if  in  after-times  the  search 
Of  men  should  reach  this  far-removed  spot, 
Let  sad  remembrance  raise  an  humble  shrine, 
And  virgin  choirs  chant  duly  o'er  our  grave — 
Peace,  peace."     His  arm  upon  the  mournful  stone 
He  dropp'd — his  eyes,  ere  yet  in  death  they  closed, 
Turn'd  to  the  name  till  he  could  see  no  more — 
"  AXXA."     His  pale  survivors,  earth  to  earth, 
Weeping  consign'd  his  poor  remains,  and  placed 
Beneath  the  sod  where  all  he  loved  was  laid : — 
Then  shaping  a  rude  vessel  from  the  woods, 


They  sought  their  country  o'er  the  waves,  and  left 
The  scenes  again  to  deepest  solitude. 
The  beauteous  Ponciana  hung  its  head 
O'er  the  gray  stone ;  but  never  human  eye 
Had  mark'd  the  spot,  or  gazed  upon  the  grave 
Of  the  unfortunate,  but  for  the  voice 
Of  Enterprise,  that  spoke,  from  Sagre's  tower, 
"  Through  ocean's  perils,  storms,  and  unknown 

wastes, 
Speed  we  to  Asia  !" 


DREAMS  OF  YOUTH. 


me  not  of  these  delightful  dreams 
Which  charm'd  my  youth  ;  or  mid  her  gay  career 
Of  hope,  or  when  the  faintly-paining  tear 

Sat  sad  on  memory's  cheek  !  though  loftier  themes 
Await  the  awaken'd  mind,  to  the  high  prize 

Of  wisdom  hardly  earn'd  with  toil  and  pain, 

Aspiring  patient;  yet  on  life's  wide  plain 

Cast  friendless,  where  unheard  some  sufferer  cries 

Hourly,  and  oft  our  road  is  lone  and  long, 
'T  were  not  a  crime,  should  we  awhile  delay 
Amid  the  sunny  field  ;  and  happier  they, 

Who,  as  they  wander,  woo  the  charm  of  song 

To  cheer  their  path,  till  they  forget  to  weep  ; 

And  the  tired  sense  is  hush'd  and  sinks  to  sleep. 


TO    TIME. 

0  TIME,  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay 
Softest  on  sorrow's  wounds,  and  slowly  thence 
(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 

The  faint  pang  stealest  unperceived  away  : 
On  thee  I  rest  rny  only  hopes  at  last ; 

And  think  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter  tear, 
That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul  held  dear, 

1  may  look  back  on  many  a  sorrow  past, 
And  greet  life's  peaceful  evening  with  a  smile. 

As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour, 
Sings  in  the  sunshine  of  the  transient  shower, 
Forgetful,  though  its  wings  be  wet  the  while. 
But  ah  !   what  ills  must  that  poor  heart  endure, 
Who  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone  a  cure. 


RETROSPECTION. 

As  slow  I  climb  the  cliff's  ascending  side, 
Much  musing  on  the  track  of  terror  past, 
When  o'er  the  dark  wave  rode  the  howling  blast, 
Pleased  I  look  back,  and  view  the  tranquil  tide 
That  laves  the  pebbled  shores  ;  and  now  the  beam 
Of  evening  smiles  on  the  gray  battlement, 
And  yon  forsaken  tower  that  time  has  rent : 
The  lifted  oar  far  off  with  silver  gleam 
Is  touch'd,  and  the  hush'd  billows  seem  to  sleep. 
Sooth'd  by  the  scene  e'en  thus  on  sorrow's  breast 
A  kindred  stillness  steals,  and  bids  her  rest ; 
Whilst  sad  airs  stilly  sigh  along  the  dorp, 
Like  melodies  that  mourn  upon  the  lyre 
Waked  by  the  breeze,  and  as  they  mourn,  expire. 


WILLIAM  LISLE    BOWLES, 


FUNERAL  OF   CHARLES   THE  FIRST,* 

AT   NIGHT,    IN    ST.    GEOKGE's    CHAPEL,    WINDSOR. 

THK  castle  clock  had  toll'd  midnight — 

With  mattock  and  with  spade, 
And  silent,  by  the  torches'  light, 

His  corse  in  earth  we  laid. 

The  coffin  bore  his  name,  that  those 

Of  other  years  might  know,' 
When  earth  its  secret  should  disclose, 

Whose  bones  were  laid  below. 

"  Peace  to  the  dead"  no  children  sung, 

Slow  pacing  up  the  nave  ; 
No  prayers  were  read,  no  knell  was  rung, 

As  deep  we  dug  his  grave. 

We  only  heard  the  winter's  wind, 

In  many  a  sullen  gust. 
As  o'er  the  open  grave  inclined, 

We  murmur'd,  "  Dust  to  dust !" 

A  moonbeam,  from  the  arches'  height, 
Stream'd,  as  we  placed  the  stone ; 

The  long  aisles  started  into  light, 
And  all  the  windows  shone. 

We  thought  we  saw  the  banners  then, 

That  shook  along  the  walls, 
While  the  sad  shades  of  mailed  men, 

Were  gazing  from  the  stalls. 

'T  is  gone  !  again,  on  tombs  defaced, 

Sits  darkness  more  profound, 
And  only,  by  the  torch,  we  traced 

Our  shadows  on  the  ground. 

And  now  the  chilly,  freezing  air, 

Without,  blew  long  and  loud  ; 
Upon  our  knees  we  breathed  one  prayer 

Where  he — slept  in  his  shroud. 

We  laid  the  broken  marble  floor — 

No  name,  no  trace  appears — 
And  when  we  closed  the  sounding  door 

We  thought  of  him  with  tears. 


REMEMBRANCE. 

I  SHALL  look  back,  when  on  the  main, — 

Back  to  my  native  isle, 
And  almost  think  I  hear  again 

Thy  voice,  and  view  thy  smile. 

But  many  days  may  pass  away 

Ere  I  again  shall  see 
Amid  the  young,  the  fair,  the  gay, — 

One  who  resembles  thee. 

*  In  the  account  of  the  burial  of  the  king  in  Windsor 
Castle  by  Sir  Thomas  Herbert,  the  spot  where  the  body 
wus  laid  is  described  minutely,  opposite  the  eleventh 
stall.  The  whole  account  is  singularly  impressive  ;  but 
it  i.s  extraordinary  it  should  ever  have  been  supposed  that 
the  pl:iro  of  interment  was  unknown,  when  this  descrip- 
tion existed.  At  the  late  accidental  disinterrnent,  some 
of  his  Inir  was  rut  off.  Soon  ;i  fl«r,  the  following  lines 
were  written,  which  I  now  set  before  the  reader  for  the 
first  time. 


Yet  when  the  pensive  thought  shall  dwell 

On  some  ideal  maid, 
Whom  fancy's  pencil  pictured  well, 

And  touch'd  with  softest  shade : 

The  imaged  form  I  shall  survey, 

And,  pausing  at  the  view, 
Recall  thy  gentle  smile,  and  say, 

"  Oh,  such  a  maid  I  knew  !" 


ON  THE  RHINE. 


'T  WAS  morn,  and  beauteous  on  the  mountain's  brow 
(Hung  with  the  blushes  of  the  bending  vine,) 
Stream'd  the  blue  light,  when  on  the  sparkling 

Rhine 

We  bounded,  and  the  white  waves  round  the  prow 
In  murmurs  parted  ;  varying  as  we  go, 

Lo !  the  woods  open  and  the  rocks  retire ; 
Some  convent's  ancient  walls,  or  glistening  spire 
Mid  the  bright  landscape's  tract,  unfolding  slow. 

Here  dark  with  furrow'd  aspect,  like  despair, 
Hangs  the  bleak  cliff,  there  on  the  woodland's  side 
The  shadowy  sunshine  pours  its  streaming  tide; 
Whilst  Hope,  enchanted  with  a  scene  so  fair, 
Would  wish  to  linger  many  a  summer's  day, 
Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  away. 


WRITTEN  AT  OSTEND. 

How  sweet  the  tuneful  bells  responsive  peal ! 
As  when,  at  opening  morn,  the  fragrant  breeze 
Breathes  on  the  trembling  sense  of  wan  disease, 

So  piercing  to  my  heart  their  force  I  feel  ! 

And  hark  !  with  lessening  cadence  now  they  fall, 
And  now  along  the  white  and  level  tide 
They  fling  their  melancholy  music  wide, 

Bidding  me  many  a  tender  thought  recall 
Of  summer  days,  and  those  delightful  years, 

When  by  my  native  streams,  in  life's  fair  prime, 

The  mournful  magic  of  their  mingling  chime 
First  waked  my  wondering  childhood  into  tears  ; 

But  seeming  now,  when  all  those  days  are  o'er, 

The  sounds  of  joy,  once  heard  arid  heard  no  more. 


MATILDA. 

IF  chance  some  pensive  stranger  hither  led, 
His  bosom  glowing  from  romantic  views, 
The  gorgeous  palace  or  proud  landscape's  hues, 
Should  ask  who  sleeps  beneath  this  lowly  bed  1 
'Tis  poor  Matilda! — to  the  cloister'd  scene 
A  mourner  beauteous,  and  unknown  she  came 
To  shed  her  secret  tears,  and  quench  the  flame 
Of  hopeless  love !  yet  was  her  look  serene 

As  the  pale  moonlight  in  the  midnight  aisle. 
Her  voice  was  soft,  which  yet  a  charm  could  lend, 
Like  that  which  spake  of  a  departed  friend : 
And  a  meek  sadness  sat  upon  her  smile  ! 
Ah,  be  the  spot  by  passing  pity  blest, 
Where  hush'd  to  long  repose  the  wretched  rest. 


SAMUEL    ROGERS. 


MR.  ROGERS  was  born  in  London  in  1762. 
On  the  completion  of  his  university  education, 
he  resided  a  considerable  period  on  the  conti- 
nent, but  nearly  all  his  life  has  been  passed 
in  his  native  city.  He  is  a  banker,  and  a 
man  of  liberal  fortune;  and  among  those  who 
know  him  he  is  scarcely  more  distinguished 
as  a  poet  than  for  the  elegance  and  amenity 
of  his  manners,  his  knowledge  of  literature 
and  the  arts,  and  his  brilliant  conversation. 
In  his  youth  he  was  the  companion  of  WYND- 
HAM,  Fox,  and  SHERIDAN,  and  in  later  years 
he  has  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  BYRON, 
MOORE,  SOUTHEY,  WORDSWORTH,  and  nearly 
all  the  great  authors  and  other  eminent  persons 
who  have  been  his  contemporaries  in  England. 

Mr.  ROGERS  commenced  his  career  as  an 
author  with  an  Ode  to  Superstition,  which 
was  written  in  his  twenty-fifth  year.  This 
was  succeeded,  in  1792.  by  The  Pleasures 
of  Memory,  which  was  received  with  extra- 
ordinary favour  by  the  critics.  It  had  been 
kept  the  Horatian  period,  and  revised  and  re- 
written until  it  could  receive  no  further  ad- 
vantage from  labour,  guided  by  the  nicest  taste 
and  judgment.  In  1778  he  published  An 
Epistle  to  a  Friend  and  other  Poems,  in  1812 
The  Voyage  of  Columbus,  in  1814  Jaqueline, 
in  1819  Human  Life,  and  in  1822  the  last, 
longest,  and  best  of  his  productions,  Italy. 

Lord  BACON  describes  poetry  as  "  having 
something  of  divineness,  because  it  doth  raise 
and  erect  the  mind,  by  submitting  the  shows 
of  things  to  the  desires  of  the  mind  ;  whereas 
reason  doth  buckle  and  bow  the  mind  to  the 
nature  of  things."  This  is  perhaps  the  most 
philosophical  description  that  has  been  given 
of  true  poetry.  There  have  been  some  poets, 
as  CRABBE  and  ELLIOTT,  whose  verse  has  re- 
flected actual  life ;  but  they  only  who  have 
conformed  "the  shows  of  things  to  the  desires 
of  the  mind,"  can  look  with  much  confidence 
for  immortality.  It  is  a  long  time  since  ROGERS 
made  his  first  appearance  before  the  world  as 
an  author,  yet  his  reputation  has  probably 
suffered  less  decay  than  that  of  any  of  his 
contemporaries.  This  is  not  because  he  pos- 
sesses the  higher  qualities  of  the  poet  in  a 


more  eminent  degree  than  they,  but  because 
he  is  more  than  any  other  the  poet  of  taste, 
and  is  guided  by  the  sense  of  beauty  rather 
than  by  the  convictions  of  reason.  Poetry  is 
in  some  sort  an  art,  though  VIDA  was  forced 
to  admit  the  inefficiency  of  all  rules  if  the 
in^cn'a  were  wanting.  If  a  man  be  by  nature 
a  poet,  he  must  still  have  much  cultivation 
before  he  will  be  able  to  fulfil  his  mission. 
There  has  never  yet  been  an  "  uneducated" 
verse-maker  whose  works  were  worth  reading 
a  second  time.  But  mere  education,  or  edu- 
cation joined  with  a  philosophic  mind  and 
some  degree  of  taste,  cannot  make  a  great 
poet,  as  one  illustrious  example  in  our  times 
will  show.  ROGERS  has  not  much  imagination, 
not  much  of  the  creative  faculty,  and  he  lacks 
sometimes  energy  and  sometimes  tenderness, 
yet  he  has  taste  and  genuine  simplicity :  not 
the  caricature  of  it  for  which  the  present  lau- 
reate is  distinguished,  but  such  simplicity  as 
COWPER  had,  and  BURNS.  His  subjects  are 
all  happily  chosen;  and  a  true  poet  proves 
the  possession  of  the  divine  faculty  almost  as 
much  in  the  selection  of  his  themes  as  in  their 
treatment.  His  poetry  is  always  pleasing;  its 
freedom  and  harmony,  its  refined  sentiment,  its 
purity,  charm  us  before  we  are  aware,  and  we 
involuntarily  place  it  among  our  treasures. 

Though  less  read  than  The  Pleasures  of 
Memory,  Italy  is  the  best  poem  Mr.  ROGERS 
has  produced.  It  was  published  anonymous- 
ly, and  was  so  different  from  his  previous 
works  that  its  authorship  was  an  enigma  to 
the  critics.  The  several  cantos  are  descrip- 
tive of  particular  scenes  and  events  which  in- 
terest a  traveller  over  the  Alps  and  through 
the  northern  parts  of  Italy.  Some  of  these 
cantos  are  remarkably  spirited  and  beautiful, 
as  one  may  see  by  the  extracts  in  this  volume, 
entitled  Venice,  Ginevra,  and  Don  Garzia. 

Within  a  few  years  Mr.  ROGERS  has  pub- 
lished in  two  volumes,  illustrated  in  the  most 
beautiful  manner  by  some  of  the  first  artists 
of  England,  his  Complete  Poetical  Works. 
He  is  now  in  the  eighty-third  year  of  his 
age,  and  the  oldest  of  the  living  poets  of  his 
country. 


SAMUEL    ROGERS. 


29 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND. 

WHEV,  with  a  Reaumur's  skill,  thy  curious  mine 
Has  class'd  the  insect  tribes  of  human  kind, 
E:ich  with  its  busy  hum,  or  gilded  wing, 
Its  subtle  web-work,  or  its  venom'd  sting; 
Let  me,  to  claim  a  few  unvalued  hours, 
Point  the  green  lane  that  leads  thro'  fern  and  flowers; 
The  shelter'd  gate  that  opens  to  my  field, 
And  the  white  front  through  mingling  elms  reveal'd, 

In  vain,  alas,  a  village  friend  invites 
To  simple  comforts,  and  domestic  rites, 
When  the  gay  months  of  Carnival  resume 
Their  annual  round  of  glitter  arid  perfume  ; 
When  London  hails  thee  to  its  splendid  mart, 
Its  hives  of  sweets,  and  cabinets  of  art ; 
And,  lo !  majestic  as  thy  manly  song, 
Flows  the  full  tide  of  human  life  along. 

Still  must  my  partial  pencil  love  to  dwell 
On  the  home  prospects  of  my  hermit  cell ; 
The  mossy  pales  that  skirt  the  orchard-green, 
Here  hid  by  shrub-wood,  there  by  glimpses  seen  ; 
And  the  brown  pathway,  that,  with  careless  flow, 
Sinks,  and  is  lost  among  the  trees  below. 
Still  must  it  trace  (the  flattering  tints  forgive) 
Each  fleeting  charm  that  bids  the  landscape  live. 
Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance,  pass — 
Browsing  the  hedge  by  fits,  the  pannier'd  ass; 
The  idling' shepherd-boy,  with  rude  delight, 
Whistling  his  dog  to  mark  the  pebble's  flight; 
And  in  her  kerchief  blue  the  cottage-maid, 
With  brimming  pitcher  from  the  shadowy  glade. 
Far  to  the  south  a  mountain  vale  retires, 
Rich  in  its  groves,  and  glens,  and  village-spires ; 
Its  upland  lawns,  and  cliffs  with  foliage  hung, 
Its  wizard-stream,  nor  nameless  nor  unsung  : 
And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day, 
What  scenes  of  glory  burst,  and  melt  away  ! 

When  April  verdure  springsinGrosvenor-square, 
And  the  furr'd  beauty  comes  to  winter  there, 
She  bids  old  Nature  mar  the  plan  no  more ; 
Yet  still  the  seasons  circle  as  before. 
Ah,  still  as  soon  the  young  Aurora  plays, 
Tho'  moons  and  flambeaux  trail  their  broadest  blaze ; 
As  soon  the  skylark  pours  his  matin  song, 
Though  evening  lingers  at  the  mask  so  long. 

There  let  her  strike  with  momentary  ray, 
As  tapers  shine  their  little  lives  away ; 
There  let  her  practise  from  herself  to  steal, 
And  look  the  happiness  she  does  not  feel ; 
The  ready  smile  and  bidden  blush  employ 
At  Faro-routs,  that  dazzle  to  destroy  ; 
Fan  with  affected  ease  the  essenced  air, 
And  lisp  of  fashions  with  unmeaning  stare. 
Be  thine  to  meditate  an  humbler  flight, 
When  morning  fills  the  fields  with  rosy  light  ; 
Be  thine  to  blend,  nor  thine  a  vulgar  aim, 
Repose  with  dignity,  with  quiet  fame. 

Here  no  state-chambers  in  long  line  unfold, 
Bright  with  broad  mirrors,  rough  with  fretted  gold  ; 
Yet  modest  ornament,  with  use  combined, 
Attracts  the  eye  to  exercise  the  mind.          [quires, 
Small  change  of  scene,  small  space  his  home  re- 
Who  leads  a  life  of  satisfied  desires. 

What  tho'  no  marble  breathes,  no  canvas  glows, 


From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows  ! 
Be  mine  to  bless  the  more  mechanic  skill, 
That  stamps,  renews,  and  multiplies  at  will ; 
And  cheaply  circulates,  through  distant  climes, 
The  fairest  relics  of  the  purest  times. 
Here  from  the  mould  to  conscious  being  start 
Those  finer  forms,  the  miracles  of  art; 
Here  chosen  gems,  imprest  on  sulphur,  shine, 
That  slept  for  ages  in  a  second  mine ; 
And  here  the  faithful  graver  dares  to  trace 
A  Michael's  grandeur,  and  a  Raphael's  grace ! 
Thy  gallery,  Florence,  gilds  my  humble  walls, 
And  my  low  roof  the  Vatican  recalls  ! 
Soon  as  the  morning  dream  my  pillow  flies, 
To  waking  sense  what  brighter  visions  rise ! 
Oh  mark  !  again  the  coursers  of  the  sun, 
At  Guido's  call,  their  round  of  glory  run  ! 
Again  the  rosy  Hours  resume  their  flight, 
Obscured  and  lost  in  floods  of  golden  light ! 

But  could  thine  erring  friend  so  long  forget 
(Sweet  source  of  pensive  joy  and  fond  regret) 
That  here  its  warmest  hues  the  pencil  flings, 
Lo  !  here  the  lost  restores,  the  absent  brings  ; 
And  still  the  few  best  loved  and  most  revered 
Rise  round  the  board  their  social  smile  endear'd. 

Selected  shelves  shall  claim  thy  studious  hours ; 
There  shall  thy  ranging  mind  be  fed  on  flowers ! 
There,  while  the  shaded  lamp's  mild  lustre  streams, 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams  ; 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there, 
Pause,  and  his  features  with  his  thoughts  compare. 
— Ah,  most  that  art  my  grateful  rapture  calls, 
Which  breathes  a  soul  into  the  silent  walls ; 
Which  gathers  round  the  wise  of  every  tongue, 
All  on  whose  words  departed  nations  hung; 
Still  prompt  to  charm  with  many  a  converse  sweet ; 
Guides  in  the  world,  companions  in  retreat ! 

Though  my  thatch'd  bath  no  rich  Mosaic  knows, 
A  limpid  spring  with  unfelt  current  flows. 
Emblem  of  life  !  which,  still  as  we  survey, 
Seems  motionless,  yet  ever  glides  away  ! 
The  shadowy  walls  record,  with  attic  art, 
The  strength  and  beauty  that  its  waves  impart. 
Here  Thetis,  bending,  with  a  mother's  fears 
Dips  her  dear  boy,  whose  pride  restrains  his  tears. 
There,  Venus,  rising,  shrinks  with  sweet  surprise, 
As  her  fair  self,  reflected,  seems  to  rise  ! 

Far  from  the  joyless  glare,  the  maddening  strife, 
And  all  "  the  dull  impertinence  of  life," 
These  eyelids  open  to  the  rising  ray, 
And  close,  when  Nature  bids,  at  close  of  day. 

re,  at  the  dawn,  the  kindling  landscape  glows; 
There  noonday  levees  call  from  faint  repose. 
Here  the  flush'd  wave  flings  back  the  parting  light ; 
There  glimmering  lamps  anticipate  the  night. 
When  from  his  classic  dreams  the  student  steals, 
Amid  the  buzz  of  crowds,  the  whirl  of  wheels, 
To  muse  unnoticed — while  around  him  press 
The  meteor-forms  of  equipage  and  dress; 
Alone,  in  wonder  lost,  he  seems  to  stand 
A  very  stranger  in  his  native  land  ! 
And  (though  perchance  of  current  coin  possest, 
Arid  modern  phrase  by  living  lips  exprost) 
like  those  blest  youths,  forgive  the  fabling  page, 
Who.^e  blameless  lives  deceived  a  twilight  age, 
c  2 


30 


SAMUEL    ROGERS. 


Spent  in  sweet  slumbers ;  till  the  miner's  spade 
Unclosed  the  cavern,  and  the  morning  play'd. 
Ah,  what  their  strange  surprise,  their  wild  delight ! 
New  arts  of  life,  new  manners  meet  their  sight ! 
In  a  new  world  they  wake,  as  from  the  dead ; 
Yet  doubt  the  trance  dissolved,  the  vision  fled  ! 

O  come,  and,  rich  in  intellectual  wealth, 
Blend  thought  with  exercise,  with  knowledge  health! 
Long,  in  this  shelter'd  scene  of  letter'd  talk, 
With  sober  step  repeat  the  pensive  walk ; 
Nor  scorn,  when  graver  triflings  fail  to  please, 
The  cheap  amusements  of  a  mind  at  ease ; 
Here  every  care  in  sweet  oblivion  cast, 
And  many  an  idle  hour — not  idly  pass'd. 

No  tuneful  echoes,  ambush'd  at  my  gate, 
Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great. 
Vain  of  its  various  page,  no  Album  breathes 
The  sigh  that  friendship  or  the  muse  bequeaths. 
Yet  some  good  genii  o'er  my  hearth  preside, 
Oft  the  far  friend,  with  secret  spell,  to  guide ; 
And  there  I  trace,  when  the  gray  evening  lours, 
A  silent  chronicle  of  happier  hours  ! 

When  Christmas  revels  in  a  world  of  snow, 
And  bids  her  berries  blush,  her  carols  flow  ; 
His  spangling  shower  when  frost  the  wizard  flings; 
Or,  borne  in  ether  blue,  on  viewless  wings, 
O'er  the  white  pane  his  silvery  foliage  weaves, 
And  gems  with  icicles  the  sheltering  eaves ; 
— Thy  muffled  friend  his  nectarine-wall  pursues, 
What  time  the  sun  the  yellow  crocus  wooes, 
Screen'd  from  the  arrowy  north  ;  and  duly  hies 
To  meet  the  morning-rumour  as  it  flies, 
To  range  the  murmuring  market-place,  and  view 
The  motley  groups  that  faithful  Teniers  drew. 

When  spring  bursts  forth  in  blossoms  through 

the  vale, 

And  her  wild  music  triumphs  on  the  gale, 
Oft  with  my  book  I  muse  from  stile  to  stile ; 
Oft  in  my  porch  the  listless  noon  beguile, 
Framing  loose  numbers,  till  declining  day 
Through  the  green  trellis  shoots  a  crimson  ray ; 
Till  the  west-wind  leads  on  the  twilight  hours, 
And  shakes  the  fragrant  bells  of  closing  flowers. 

Nor  boast,  0  Choisy  !  seat  of  soft  delight, 
The  secret  charm  of  thy  voluptuous  night. 
Vain  is  the  blaze  of  wealth,  the  pomp  of  power  ! 
Lo,  here,  attendant  on  the  shadowy  hour, 
Thy  closet-supper,  served  by  hands  unseen, 
Sheds,  like  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene, 
To  hail  our  coming.     Not  a  step  profane 
Dares,  with  rude  sound,  the  cheerful  rite  restrain ; 
And,  while  the  frugal  banquet  glows  reveal'd, 
Pure  and  unbought, — the  natives  of  my  field  ; 
Whileblushing  fruits  through  scatter'd  leaves  invite, 
Still  clad  in  bloorn,  and  veil'd  in  azure  light; — 
With  wine,  as  rich  in  years  as  Horace  sings, 
With  water,  clear  as  his  own  fountain  flings, 
The  shifting  sideboard  plays  its  humbler  part, 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Loriot's  art. 

Thus,  in  this  calm  recess,  so  richly  fraught 
With  mental  light,  and  luxury  of  thought, 
My  life  steals  on;   (Oh  could  it  blend  with  thine  !) 
Careless  my  course,  yet  not  without  design. 
So  through  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives  glide, 
The  light  raft  dropping  with  the  silent  tide ; 


So,  till  the  laughing  scenes  are  lost  in  night, 
The  busy  people  wing  their  various  flight, 
Culling  unmunber'd  sweets  from  nameless  flowers, 
That  scent  the  vineyard  in  its  purple  hours. 

Rise,  ere  the  watch-relieving  clarions  play, 
Caught  through  St.  James's  groves  a  blush  of  day  ; 
Ere  its  full  voice  the  choral  anthem  flings 
Through  trophied  tombs  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Haste  to  the  tranquil  shade  of  learned  ease, 
Though  skill'd  alike  to  dazzle  and  to  please; 
Though  each  gay  scene  be  search'dwith  anxiouseye, 
Nor  thy  shut  door  be  pas^'d  without  a  sigh. 

If,  when  this  roof  shall  know  thy  friend  no  more, 
Some,   form'd   like  thee,  should  once,  like  thee, 

explore ; 

Invoke  the  Lares  of  this  loved  retreat, 
And  his  lone  walks  imprint  with  pilgrim-feet; 
Then  be  it  said,  (as,  vain  of  better  days, 
Some  gray  domestic  prompts  the  partial  praise,) 
"  Unknown  he  lived,  unenvied,  not  unblest ;. 
Reason  his  guide,  and  happiness  his  guest, 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  his  moral  page, 
We  trace  the  manners  of  a  purer  age. 
His  soul,  with  thirst  of  genuine  glory  fraught, 
Scorn'd  the  false  lustre  of  licentious  thought. 
— One  fair  asylum  from  the  world  he  knew, 
One  chosen  seat,  that  charms  with  various  view  ! 
Who  boasts  of  more  (believe  the  serious  strain) 
Sighs  for  a  home,  and  sighs,  alas !  in  vain. 
Through  each  he  roves,  the  tenant  of  a  day, 
And,  with  the  swallow,  wings  the  year  away  !" 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF   A  SISTER. 

MAX  is  born  to  suffer.     On  the  door 

Sickness  has  set  her  mark  ;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  we  hear,  or  wood-notes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child  ; 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming  fire, 
And  innocence  breathes  contagion — all  but  one, 
Bui  she  who  gave  it  birth — from  her  alone 
The  medicine  cup  is  taken.     Through  the  night, 
And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 
Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by, 
Watching  the  changes  with  her  anxious  eye : 
While  they  without,  listening  below,  above, 
(Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love?) 
From  every  little  noise  catch  hope  and  fear, 
Exchanging  still,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear, 
Whispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tenderness 
That  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress. 

Such  grief  was  ours — it  seems  but  yesterday — 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
'Twas  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  sister's  arms  to  die  ! 
Oh  thou  wert  lovely — lovely  was  thy  frame, 
And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  Heaven  it  came? 
And,  when  recall'd  to  join  the  blest  above, 
Thou  died'st  a  victim  to  exceeding  love, 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.     In  happier  hours, 
When  idle  fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers, 
Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  bad'st  me  write  on  thee  ; 
And  now  I  write — what  thou  shall  never  see  ! 


SAMUEL    ROGERS. 


31 


THE   PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 

TWILIGHT'S  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village-green, 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Still'd  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flock'd  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 
Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  yet  still  I  linger  here  ! 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear  ] 

Mark  yon  old  mansion  frowning  through  the  trees, 
Whose  hollow  turret  woos  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement,  arch'd  witu  ivy's  brownest  shade 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  convey'd. 
The  mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-grown 

court, 

Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport ; 
When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new, 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  revealed, 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest. 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow'd  guest ! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call  ! 
Oh,  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate,  [hung, 

Now   stain'd  with  dews,  with  cobwebs  darkly 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung  ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweeteri'd  every  meal  with  social  glee, 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest ; 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'T  was  here  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound ; 
And  turn'd  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
'T  was  here,  at  eve,  we  form'd  our  fairy  ring ; 
And  fancy  flutter'd  on  her  wildest  wing. 
Giants  and  genii  chain'd  each  wondering  ear ; 
And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 
Oft  with  the  babes  we  wander'd  in  the  wood, 
Or  view'd  the  forest-feats  of  Robin  Hood  : 
Oft,  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 
With  startling  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower ; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 
Murdcr'd  by  ruffian  hands  when  smiling  in  its  sleep. 

Ye  Household  Deities  !  whose  guardian  eye 
Mark'd  each  pure  thought,  ere  register'd  on  high ; 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend, 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feeling  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight, 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wilder'd  sight ! 
And  still,  with  heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  many-colour' d  chart. 
The  clor.k  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 
That  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear, 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near ; 
And  has~  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime, 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feather'd  feet  of  Time  ? 


That  massive  beam,  with  curious. carvings  wrought, 
Whence    the   caged  linnet  soothed    my    pensive 

thought ; 

Those  muskets,  cased  with  venerable  rust ; 
Those   once-loved   forms,  still   breathing   through 

their  dust, 

Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 
Starting  to  life — all  whisper  of  the  past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  allusions  swarm  in  every  grove  ! 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  watch'd  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing, 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring  ! 
How  oft  inscribed,  with  friendship's  votive  rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silver'd  by  thevtouch  of  Time  ; 
Soar'd  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer-shade; 
Or  strew'd  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat, 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene  ; 
The  tangled  wood-walk,  and  the  tufted  green  ! 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  light  can  give. 
Thou  first,  best  friend  that  heaven  assigns  below 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charm ; 
Thee  would  the  muse  invoke  ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept  and  the  poet's  song. 
What  soften'd  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
When  o'er  thelandscapeTime'smeektvvilightsteals! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 
Thy  temper'd  gleams  of  happiness  resign'd 
Glance  on  the  darken'd  mirror  of  the  mind,  [gray, 

The  school's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant-feet  across  the  lawn  ; 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear, 
Some  little  friendship  form'd  and  cherish'd  here ; 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams  ! 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  gipsy's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed ; 
Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  with  silent  awe, 
Her  tatter'd  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw  ; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore, 
Imps,  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlets  bred, 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed !          [shade, 
Whose  dark  eyes  flash'd  through  locks  of  blackest 
When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bay'd: — 
And  heroes  fled  the  Sibyl's  mutter'd  call, 
Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard-wall. 
As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew, 
And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view, 
How  throbb'd  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and 

fears, 
To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years  ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest. triumph  flush'd  my  breast; 
This  truth  once  known — To  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 


SAMUEL    ROGERS. 


We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way, 

(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-gray) 

Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 

And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt. 

As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store, 

And  sigh'd  to  think  that  little  was  no  more, 

He  breath'd  his  prayer,  «  Long  may  such  goodness 

live  !" 

'Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 
Angels,  when  mercy's  mandate  wing'd  their  flight, 
Had  stopt  to  dwell  with  pleasure  on  the  sight. 

But  hark !  through  those  old  firs,  with  sullen  swell, 
The  church-clock  strikes!  ye  tender  scenes,  farewell! 
It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  Time  may  soon  efface. 

On  yon  gray  stone,  that  fronts  the  chancel-door, 
Worn  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more, 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  through  the  ring, 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  life  was  in  its  spring ; 
Alas  !  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth, 
That  faintly  echoed  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald-light  to  shed, 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,  as  he  turn'd  the  greensward  with  his  spade, 
He  lectured  every  youth  that  round  him  play'd ; 
And,  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay, 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,hush!  while  here  alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life  !     Instructors  of  my  youth  ! 
Who  first  unveil'd  the  hallow 'd  form  of  truth  ; 
Whose  every  word  enlighten'd  and  endear'd  ; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered  ; 
In  friendship's  silent  register  ye  live, 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  art  can  give. 

But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasure  sleep, 
When  only  sorrow  wakes,  and  wakes  to  weep, 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined  ! 

Ethereal  Power  !  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recall'st  the  far-fled  spirit  of  delight; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good  ! 
Blest  Memory,  hail!    Oh  grant  the  grateful  muse, 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  living  hues, 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll, 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Lull'd  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain, 
Our  thoughts  are  link'd  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise ! 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  flies. 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Delight  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 
Brightens  or  fades;  yet  all,  with  magic  art, 
Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 
As  studious  Prospero's  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  subject-spirit  to  his  cell ; 
Each,  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires, 
At  judfOMOt  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Eanh  thrills  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 
Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course, 
And  through  the  frame  invisibly  convey 
The,  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play ; 
AT. m's  little  universe  at  once  o'e.rcast, 
At  once  illumined  when  the  cloud  is  past. 


LOCH-LONG. 

BLUE  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gone, 
Ben-Lomond  in  his  glory  shone, 
When,  Luss,  I  left  thee  ;  when  the  breeze 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands, 
Thy  kirk-yard  wall  among  the  trees, 
Where,  gray  with  age,  the  dial  stands ; 
That  dial  so  well  known  to  me  ! 
— Though  many  a  shadow  it  had  shed, 
Beloved  sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

The  fairy  isles  fled  far  away  ; 
That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green 
Where  shepherd-huts  are  dimly  seen, 
And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day  ; 
That  too,  the  deer's  wild  covert,  fled, 
And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead  : 
While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 
Much  of  Rob  Roy  the  boatman  told  ; 
His  arm  that  fell  below  his  knee, 
His  cattle-ford  and  mountain  hold. 

Tarbat,  thy  shore  I  climb'd  at  last ; 
And,  thy  shady  region  pass'd, 
Upon  another  shore  I  stood, 
And  look'd  upon  another  flood  ; 
Great  Ocean's  self  !      ('Tis  He  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills  ;) 
Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round, 
Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground; 
And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among, 
As  Fingal  spoke,  and  Ossian  sung. 

Night  fell ;  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky, 
As  o'er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew ; 

The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 

And  now  the  grampus,  half-descried, 

Black  and  huge  above  the  tide; 

The  cliffs  and  promontories  there, 

Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare ; 

Each  beyond  each,  with  giant  feet 

Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet ; 

The  shatter'd  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 

Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rush'd  in  vain, 

Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain  ; 

All  into  midnight  shadow  sweep — 

When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep ! 

Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight, 

The  prow  wakes  splendour  ;  and  the  oar, 

That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before, 

Flashes  in  a  sea  of  light ! 

Glad  sign  and  sure  !  for  now  we  hail 

Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale ; 

And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be, 

That  leads  to  friendship  and  to  thee  ! 
Oh,  blest  retreat  and  sacred  too ! 

Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 

TolPd  duly  on  the  desert  air, 

And  crosses  deek'd  thy  summits  blue. 

Oft,  like  some  loved  romantic  tale, 

Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall, 

Amid  the  bum  and  stir  of  men, 

Thy  becchcn  grove  and  waterfall, 

Thy  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail, 

And  Her — the  Lady  of  the  Glen  ! 


SAMUEL    ROGERS. 


33 


GINEVRA. 

IF  ever  you  should  come  to  Modena, 
(Where  among  other  relics  you  may  see 
Tassoni's  bucket — but  'tis  not  the  true  one) 
Stop  at  a  palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Donati, 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  you — but,  before  you  go, 
Enter  the  house — forget  it  not,  I  pray  you — 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 

'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  last  ot'  that  illustrious  family  ; 
Done  by  Zampieri — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He  who  observes  it — ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up, 
As  though  she  said  *'  Beware  !"  her  vest  of  gold 
Broider'd  with  flowers  and  clasp'd  from  head  to  foot, 
An  emerald  stone  in  every  golden  clasp ; 
Arid  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls. 

But  then  her  face, 

So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Along  it  hangs 

Over  a  mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken-chest,  half-eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent, 
With  scripture-stories  from  the  Life  of  Christ ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor — 
That,  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture;  and  you  will  not, 
When  you  have  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child — her  name  Ginevra  ; 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  father ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gayety, 
Her  pranks  the  favourite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour  ; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preach'd  decorum ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy  ;  but  at  the  nuptial  feast, 
When  all  sate  down,  the  bride  herself  was  wanting. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  father  cried, 
"  'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love  !" 
And  fill'd  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas  !  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  any  thing  be  guess'd. 
But  that  she  was  not! 
5 


Weary  of  his  life, 

Franceses  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking, 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Donati  lived — and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remain'd  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  strangers. 
Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgotten, 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery, 
That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed;  and  'twas  said 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
"  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place  1" 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said  ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton, 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald -stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 
All  else  had  perish'd — save  a  wedding-ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"  Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave  ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  conceal'd  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy; 
When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  for  ever ! 


THE  FOUR   ERAS. 

THE  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky  ; 

The  bees  have  humm'd  their  noontide  harmony ; 

Still  in  the  vale  the  village-bells  ring  round, 

Still  in  Llewellyn-hall  the  jests  resound  : 

For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 

Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  pray'r, 

And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 

The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire.          [hail 

A  few  short  years — and  then  these  sounds  shall 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sir-loin; 
The  ale,  now  brew'd,  in  floods  of  amber  shine : 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days, 
The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 
"  'Twas  on  these  knees  he  sate  so  oft  and  smiled." 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white  ;  and  hymns  be  sung, 
And  violets  scatter'd  round  ;  and  old  and  young, 
In  every  cottage  porch,  with  garlands  green, 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene ; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas,  nor  in  a  distant  hour, 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower; 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weepings  heard  where  only  joy  has  been ; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  move, 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before. 


34 


SAMUEL    ROGERS. 


DON  GARZIA. 

AMONG  the  awful  forms  that  stand  assembled 
In  the  great  square  of  Florence,  may  be  seen 
That  Cosmo,  not  the  father  of  his  country, 
Not  he  so  styled,  but  he  who  play'd  the  tyrant. 
Clad  in  rich  armour  like  a  paladin, 
But  with  his  helmet  olV,  in  kingly  state, 
Aloft  he  sits  upon  his  horse  of  brass ; 
And  they  who  read  the  legend  underneath 
Go  and  pronounce  him  happy.     \  et  there  is 
A  chamber  at  Grosseto,  that,  if  walls 
Could  speak  and  tell  of  what  is  done  within, 
Would  turn  your  admiration  into  pity. 
Half  oi'whui  p.iss'd  died  with  him;  but  the  rest, 
All  he  di.scover'd  when  the  lit  was  on. 
All  that,  by  those  who   li.sten'd,  could  be  glean'd 
From  broken  sentences,  and  starts  in  sleep, 
Is  told,  and  by  an  honest  chronicler. 

Two  of  his  sons,  Giovanni  and  Garzia, 
(The  eldest  had  not  seen  his  sixteenth  summer,) 
t  to  the  chase ;  but  one  of  them,  Giovanni, 

t  beloved,  the  glory  of  his  house, 
luturn'd  not;  and  at  close  of  day  was  found 

in  his  innocent  blood.     Too  well,  alas, 
The  trembling  <  i.  the  doer; 

1  the  body  to  be  borne 
ret  to  that  chamber,  at  an  hour 
When  all  slept  sound,  save  the  disconsolate  mother, 
Who  littlo  thought  of  what  was  yet  to  . 
And  live,!  hu!  to  !«•  told — lie  hade  Garzia 

;nd  follow  him.     Holding  in  one  hand 
A  winking  lamp,  and  in  the  other  a  key 

.  .e  and  dungeon-like,  thither  he  lr<I  ; 
An  1,  /I'd  in  and  Iwk'd  the  door, 

•her  fix'd  his  ryes  upon  the 

And  closely  quc-stion'd  him.     No  change  betray'd 
Or  guilt  or  fear.     Then  Cosmo  lifted  up 
Tin-.  t.     -Look  there!     Look  there !" 

he  cried, 
"  Blood  calls  for  blood — and  from  a  father's  hand  ! 

•  thyself  wilt  save  him  that  sad  office. 
••  What!"  he  exelaim'd,  when,  shuddering  at  the 

sight, 

The  boy  breathed  out,  '•  I  stood  but  on  my  guard." 
"  Dar'st  thou  then  blacken  one  who  never  wrong'd 

thee, 

Who  would  not  set  his  foot  upon  a  worm  ? 
Vi-*.  thou  must  die,  lest  others  fall  by  thee, 
thou  should.-t  be  the  slayer  of  us  all." 
Then  from  <  lie  took  the  .!.i. 

•Ml  one  which  spilt  his  brother's  blood  ; 
And,  :i  the  ground,  «' Great  God!"  he 

cried, 

•it  me  the  strength  to  do  an  act  of  justice, 
Thou  knowe-t  v/hat  it  costs  me;  but.  alas. 
How  can  I  spare  iring  none  < 

Grant  me  ;  .  the  will, — and  oh!  forgive 

The  sinful  soul  of  a  m  •  I  son. 

"f  is  :i  who  implores  it." 

'.unsr,  and  wept 
l.i'n  to  his  bosom  ; 

And  then,  but  \\'.  '.  Kim  by  the  arm, 

Thrusting  him  !  away  his  ft 

And  rtmbb'd  him  t< 


Well  might  De  Thou, 

When  in  his  youth  he  came  to  Cosmo's  court, 
Think  on  the  past ;  and,  as  he  wander'd  through 
The  ancient  palace — through  those  ample  spaces 
Silent,  deserted — stop  awhile  to  dwell 
rpon  two  portraits  there,  drawn  on  the  wall 
Together,  as  of  two  in  bonds  of  love, 
One  in  a  cardinal's  habit,  one  in  black, 
Those  of  the  unhappy  brothers,  and  infer 
From  the  deep  silence  that  his  questions  drew, 
The  terrible  truth. 

Well  might  he  heave  a  sigh 
For  poor  humanity,  when  he  In-held 
That  very  Cosmo  shaking  o'er  his  fire, 
Drowsy  and  deaf,  and  inarticulate, 
Wrapt  in  his  night-gown,  o'er  a  sick  man's  mess, 
In  the  last  stage— death-struck  and  deadly  pale ; 
His  wife,  another,  not  his  Eleanora, 
At  once  his  nurse  and  his  interpreter. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

IT  was  a  well 

Of  whitest  rmrble,  white  as  from  the  quarry; 
And  richly  wrought  with  many  a  high  relief, 
Greek  sculpture — in  some  earlier  day  perhaps 
A  tomb,  and  honour'd  with  a  hero's  ashes. 
The  water  from  the  rock  fill'd,  overflow'd  it ; 
Then  dash'd  away,  playing  the  prodigal, 
And  soon  was  lost — stealing  unseen,  unheard, 
Through  the  long  grass  and  round  the  twisted  roots 
Of  aged  trees;  discovering  where  it  ran 
By  the  fr«h  \erdure.    Overcome  with  heat, 
I  threw  me  down  ;  admiring,  as  I  lay, 
That  shady  nook,  a  singing-place  for  birds, 
That  grove  so  intricate,  so  full  of  flowers, 
More  than  enough  to  please  a  child  a-Maying. 

The  sun  was  down,  a  distant  convcnt-bvll 
Ringii  and  now  approach'd 

The  hour  for  stir  and  village-gossip  there, 
The  hour  Rcbekah  came,  when  from  the  well 
She  drew  with  such  alacrity  to  serve 
The  stranger  and  his  camels.     Soon  I  heard 
Footsteps ;  and  lo,  descending  by  a  path 
Trodden  for  a-es.  many  a  nymph  appear'd, 
.'d  and  vanish'd,  In-aring  on  her  head 

!'.eu  pitcher.     It  call'd  up  the  day 
Ulysses  lauded  there;  and  long  I  ga/.ed, 
Like  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time. 

At  length  there  came  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 
Her  little  brother  dam-ing  down  before  her; 
And  ever  ;i-  he  spoke,  which  he  did  ever, 
Turning  and  looking  up  in  warmth  of  heart 
And  brotherly  affection.     Stopping  there, 
She  join'd  her  rosy  hands,  and,  filling  them 
With  tin-  pure  element,  gave  him  to  drink  ; 

•-vhile  he  quenehM  his  thirst,  standing  on  tip- 
'  i  d-iwn  upon  him  with  :i  litter*!  imila, 

1  '  .tue. 

Th>  D  them  as  they  stood.  Cunova, 

Thou  had-'  iliem  with  immoital  youth; 

And  tl  lived  undivided. 

Winning  all  hearts — of  all  thy  works  the  fa 


SAMUEL    ROGERS. 


35 


VENICE. 

No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro, 

Led  to  her  gates.     The  path  lay  o'er  the  sea, 

Invisible ;  and  from  the  land  we  went 

As  to  a  floating  city — steering  in, 

And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream, 

So  smoothly,  silently — by  many  a  dome 

Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico, 

The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky ; 

By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  splendour, 

Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant-kings; 

The  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  had  shatter'd 

them, 

Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art, 
As  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 

Thither  I  came,  in  the  great  passage-boat. 
From  Padua,  where  the  stars  are,  night  by  night, 
Watch'd  from  the  top  of  an  old  dungeon-tower, 
Whence  blood  ran  once,  the  tower  of  Ezzelino — 
Not  as  he  watch'd  them,  when  he  read  his  fate 
And  shudder'd.    But  of  him  I  thought  not  then, 
Him  or  his  horoscope;  far.  far  from  me        [there, 
The  forms  of  guilt  and  fear;  though  some  were 
Sitting  a>non:(  us  round  the  cabin-board, 
Some  who,  like  hi  in.  had  cried,  ••  Spill  blood  enough!" 
And  could  shako  long  at  shadow*.   They  had  play'd 
Their  parts  at  Padua,  and  were  now  returning; 

rrant  crew,  and  careless  of  to-morrow. 
Careless,  and  full  of  mirth.     Who.  in  that  quaver, 
Siii';s  ••  i '  i  -.,.  ( '  iro  I" — 'T  is  the  Prima  Donna! 
And  to  her  monkey,  smiling  in  his  face, 
Who,  as  transported,  cries,  "Bravo!  Ancora?" 
'T  is  a  jrravo  personage,  an  old  macaw, 
Perch'd  on  her  shoulder.    But  mark  him  who  leaps 
Ashore,  and  with  a  shout  urges  along 
The  lading  mules;  then  ruus  and  climbs  a  tree 
That  with  its  branches  overhangs  the  stream, 
And,  like  an  acorn,  drops  on  deck  acrain. 
'Tis  he  who  speaks  not,  stirs  not,  but  we  laugh; 
That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arleeehino. 

At  length  we  leave  the  river  for  the  sea, 
At  lenirth  a  voire  aloft  proclaims  "Venc/i.i!" 
And,  a-  call'd  forth,  it  comes.    A  few  in  fear, 
Flying  awav  from  him  wh'«o  v-v^f  ;t  \vas, 
That  the  <j;rass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had  trod, 
Gave  birth  to  Venice.     Like  the  water-fowl, 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean-waves; 
And,  whore  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew;  'rth,  the  south;  where  they  that  came 

Had  to  make  sure  the  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Rose,  like  in  exhalation,  from  the   ' 

•nefropolis,  with  glittering  spires, 
With  theatres,  basilicas  ador,n'd  ; 
A  scene  of  Ji^ht  and  glory,  a  dominion, 
That  has  en  lured  the  longest  among  men. 

And  whence  the  talisman  by  which  she  rose, 
Towering?    'T  was  found  there  in  the  barren  sea. 
Want  le  !  t  >  enterprise;  and,  far  or  near, 
Who  i;r  '  not  the  Venetian? — now  in  Cairo, 
Ere  \  Hi  came,  Ii--!eiiin'.:  »..  'le-ir 

Its  belh,  approaching1  from  the  Red-S.-a  coast; 
Now  on  the  Euxine,  on  the  ph, 

In  conM-rse  with  the  Persian,  with  the  RUSH, 


The  Tartar ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 
Pearls  from  the  gulf  of  Ormus,  gems  from  Bagdad; 
Eyes  brighter  yet,  that  shed  the  light  of  love, 
From  Georgia,  from  Circassia.    Wandering  round 
When  in  the  rich  bazar  he  saw,  display'd, 
Treasures  from  unknown  climes,  away  he  went, 
And,  travelling  slowly  upward,  drew  ere  long 
From  the  well-head,  supplying  all  below; 
Making  the  imperial  city  of  the  East, 
Herself,  his  tributary. 

If  we  turn 

To  the  Black  Forest  of  the  Rhine,  the  Danube, 
Where  o'er  the  narrow  glen  the  castle  hangs, 
And,  like  the  wolf  that  hunger'd  at  his  gate, 
The  baron  lived  by  rapine — there  we  meet, 
In  warlike  guise,  the  caravan  from  Venice ; 
Winning  its  way  with  all  that  can  attract, 
Cages,  whence  every  wild  cry  of  the  desert, 
Jugglers,  stage-dancers.     Well  might  Charlemain 
And  his  brave  peers,  each  with  his  visor  up, 
On  their  long  lances  lean  and  gaze  awhile, 
When  the  Venetian  to  their  eyes  disclosed 
The  wonders  of  the  East !    Well  might  they  then 
Sigh  for  new  conquests  ! 

Thus  did  Venice  rise, 

Thus  flourish,  till  the  unwelcome  tidings  came, 
That  in  the  Tagus  had  arrived  a  fleet 
From  India,  from  the  region  of  the  sun, 
Fragrant  with  spices — that  a  way  was  found, 
A  channel  opcn'd,  and  the  golden  stream 
Turn'd  to  enrich  another.     Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  depart  in  or.  ami  at  last  she  fell, 
Fell  in  an  instant,  blotted  out  and  razed  ; 
She  who  had  stood  yet  longer  than  the  longest 
Of  the  four  kingdoms. — who,  as  in  an  ark, 
Had  floated  down,  amid  a  thousand  wrecks, 
Uninjured,  from  the  old  world  to  the  new, 
From  the  last  trace  of  civilized  life — to  where 
Light  shone  again,  and  with  unclouded  splendour. 
Through  many  an  age  she  in  the  mid-sea  dwelt, 
From  her  retreat  calmly  contemplating 
The  changes  of  the  earth,  herself  unchanged. 
Before  her  pass'd,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  mightiest  of  the  mighty.    What  are  these, 
Clothed  in  their  purple  ?    O'er  the  plobe  they  fling 
Their  monstrous  shadows ;  and,  while  yet  we  speak, 
Phantom-like,  vanish  with  a  dreadful  scream  ! 
What — but  the  last  that  styled  themselves  the 

Cffisare? 

And  who  in  long  array  (look  where  they  come — 
Their  gesture  menacing  so  far  and  wide) 
Wear  the  green  turban  and  the  heron's  plume? 
Who  but  the  caliphs "?   follow'd  fast  by  shapes 
As  new  and  strange — some,  men  of  steel,  steel-clad; 
Others,  nor  long,  alas,  the  interval, 
In  light  and  gay  attire,  with  brow  serene, 
Wielding. love's  thunder,  scattering  sulphurous  fire 
Mingled  with  darkness;  an  1.  among  the  rest, 
Lo,  one  by  one,  passing  continually, 
Those  who  ii^umc  :»  sway  beyond  them  all; 
Men  gray  with  age,  each  with  a  triple  crown, 
And  in  his  tremulous  hands  rasping  the  keys 
That  can  alone,  as  he  would  signify, 
Unlock  Heaven's  gate. 


SIR    EGERTOX    BRYDGES. 


SIR  SAMUEL  EGERTON  BRYDGES  was  born 
at  the  manor-house  of  Woolton,  between  Can- 
terbury and  Dover,  on  the  30th  of  Novem- 
ber, 176*3.  By  his  mother,  an  EGERTON,  he 
was  descended  from  the  most  illustrious  blood 
in  Europe.  Through  his  father,  he  claimed 
to  be  the  representative  of  the  old  barony  of 
Chandos.  This  pretension,  which  was  pro- 
secuted unsuccessfully  before  the  House  of 
Lords,  was  "  the  cherished  madness"  of  Sir 
EGERTOX;  it  has  a  ludicrous  prominence 
in  nearly  all  his  writings;  and  its  failure 
deeply  imbittered  his  spirit.  The  perusal  of 
Mr.  BELTZ'S  hostile  and  uncandid  volume 
leaves  the  impression  that  this  claim  was  well 
founded :  but  the  case  is  a  mysterious  one,  and 
was  involve^  in  great  doubt,  even  before  Lord 
EL  DON  spoke  upon  it. 

In  1780,  he  entered  Queen's  College,  Cam- 
bridge :  he  there  devoted  himself  to  poetry, 
neglected  the  regular  studies,  and  left  the  uni- 
versity without  a  degree.  He  undertook  the 
study  of  the  law,  and  hi  1787  ^  <  called  to 
the  bar;  but  never  made  any  progress  in  the 
profession.  His  career  as  an  author  began  by 
the  publication  of  a  volume  of  poems  in  1785. 
In  the  succeeding  years,  he  wrote  the  novels 
"Mary  de  Clifford,"  "Arthur  Fit*  Albini," 
and  "  Le  Forester ;"  but  was  chiefly  occupied 
with  bibliographical  and  genealogical  inves- 
tigations. The  "  Censura  Literaria,"  and  the 
«« Restituta,"  are  familiar  to  the  students  of 
literary  history.  His  edition  of  "Collins* 
Peerage,"  which  employed  him  from  1806  to 
1812,  is  probably  the  most  laborious  of  all  his 
works.  In  1STJ.  he  published  a  series  of 
Essays,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Ruminator :" 
Lord  BYROX,  in  one  of  his  journals,  speaks  of 
having  read  them,  and  characterizes  the  author 
as  "a  strange,  but  able  old  man."  "Occa- 
sional Poems"  appeared  in  1814;  and  "Ber- 
tram," a  poem,  in  1815.  In  1814,  he  obtained 
a  baronetcy.  He  became  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Commons  in  1812,  where  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  procuring  some  im- 
portant improvements  in  the  law  of  copy-right. 
Upon  the  dissolution  of  that  parliament  in 
1818,  he  withdrew  to  the  continent,  where, 
with  little  exception,  he  passed  the  remainder 


of  his  days.  Pecuniary  embarrassment,  in- 
duced by  the  indulgence  of  various  expensive 
tastes,  was  understood  to  be  the  cause  of  this 
voluntary  exile.  He  resided  in  Paris,  Italy, 
but  mostly  at  or  near  Geneva.  In  literature, 
he  sought  relief  from  the  annoyances  of  con- 
tracted circumstances  and  disappointed  hopes; 
and  he  was  constantly  engaged  in  writing  and 
printing  boobs.  It  is  impracticable  to  give  a 
complete  list  of  his  works.  The  best  of  those 
written  while  on  the  continent  are,  "  Res  Li- 
teraria?," 1820, 1821;  "Letters  from  the  Con- 
tinent," 1821 ;  "  Gnomica,"  and  "Letters  on 
the  Genius  of  Lord  Byron,"  perhaps  the  most 
valuable  of  his  productions,  1824;  "Recol- 
lections of  foreign  Travel,"  1 825 ;  "  Imaginary 
Biography,"  and  his  own  Autobiography,  in 
His  edition  of  "Milton,"  with  a  life 
of  that  poet,  has  made  his  name  better 
known  to  the  public  than  any  other  of  his 
performances.  He  died  at  Campagne  Gros 
Jean,  near  Geneva,  on  the  8th  of  September, 
1837. 

To  no  prose  writer  of  our  time  is  English 
literature  beholden  for  finer  passages  of  just 
thought,  high  sentiment,  and  finished  elo- 
.  than  to  Sir  EGERTOX  BRYDGES.  But 
the  effect  of  these  is  sadly  impaired  by  repeti- 
jotism,  and  all  the  infirmities  of  morbid 
passion.  A  judicious  selection  of  his  best 
paragraphs  would  form  a  volume  of  singular 
interest  and  beauty.  To  the  success  of  his 
ardent  wish  to  take  a  permanent  place  among 
the  great  authors  of  his  country,  there  wanted 
nothing  but  patience,  control  of  temper,  and 
the  prolonged  concentration  of  his  powers 
upon  some  one  great  work  on  some  important 
subject.  Unluckily  for  his  ambition,  the  in- 
tensity of  the  desire  paralyzed  the  vigour  of 
the  effort. 

His  verse  is  the  expression  of  sensitive 
feeling  elevated  and  coloured  by  romantic 
fancy :  it  is  marked  by  a  delicate  sense  of  the 
beauties  of  nature,  and  displays  great  com- 
mand of  the  resources  of  language.  Under 
the  criticisms  of  his  friend,  Lord  TEKTER- 
PEX.  he  practised  the  art  "de  faire  des  vers 
dimcilement."  His  sonnet  upon  "  Echo  and 
Silence"  was  pronounced  by  WORDSWORTH 


SIR    EGERTON    BRYDGES. 


37 


the  best  sonnet  in  the  language;  and  Mr. 
SOUTHEY  said,  that  he  knew  not  any  poem 
in  any  language  more  beautifully  imaginative. 
The  two  last  lines  finely  imitate  to  the  ear  the 
thronging  echoes  which  they  describe.  "The 
Winds,"  and  the  lines  "  Written  on  the  Ap- 
proach of  cold  Weather,"  are  scarcely  inferior ; 
and  the  sonnets,  "To  Evening,"  and  "To 
Autumn,'"  are  constructed  with  consummate 
skill.  The  sonnets  on  HARRY  HASTINGS  are 
a  series  of  cabinet  pictures,  which  deserve 


careful  study.  They  are  in  a  style  of  art,  to 
which,  with  the  saving  of  a  very  few  of  Mr. 
WORDSWORTH'S  sonnets,  the  literature  of  this 
age  is  a  stranger.  In  respect  to  finish,  tone, 
and  the  magical  effect  by  which  a  single  image 
is  made  to  flash  the  whole  scene  upon  the 
mind,  they  remind  us  of  the  rural  elegies  of 
TIBULLUS.  The  life  of  the  old  sportsman  is 
revived  before  us,  with  astonishing  complete- 
ness. The  name  of  the  author  of  those  son- 
nets will  not  die. 


ECHO  AND  SILENCE. 

Ix  eddying  course  when  leaves  began  to  fly, 
And  Autumn  in  her  lap  the  store  to  strew, 
As  mid  wild  scenes  I  chanced  the  Muse  to  woo. 

Thro'  glens  untrod,  and  woods  that  frown'd  on  high, 

Two  sleeping  nymphs  with  wonder  mute  I  spy ! 
And,  lo,  she's  gone. ! — In  robe  of  dark-irreen  hue 
'T  was  Echo  from  her  sister  Silence  flew, 

For  quirk  the  hunter's  horn  resounded  to  the  sky! 

In  shade  affrighted  Silence  melts  away. 

Not  so  her  sister. — Hark  !   for  onward  still, 

With  far-heard  step,  she  takes  her  listening  way, 
Bounding  from  roek  to  rock,  and  hill  to  hill. 
Ah,  mark  the  merry  maid  in  mockful  play 

With  thousand  mimic  tones  the  laughing  forest  fill ! 


THE  APPROACH  OF  COLD  WEATHER. 

O\'K  morn,  what  time  the  sickle  'gan  to  play, 

The  eastern  gates  of  heaven  were  open  laid, 

When  forth  the  rosy  Hours  did  lead  a  maid, 
From  her  sweet  eyes  who  shed  a  soften'd  rav. 

Blushing  and  fair  she  was;  and  from  the  braid 
Of  her  gold  locks  she  shook  forth  perfumes  gay  : 

Yet.  languid  look'd  and  indolently  stray'd 
A  while,  to  watch  the  harvest  borne  away. 
But  now,  with  sinews  braced,  and  aspect  hale. 

With  buskia'd  legs,  and  quiver  'cross  her  flung. 
Wilh  hounds  and  horn  she  seeks  the  wood  and  vale, 

And  Echo  listens  to  her  forest  song. 

At  eve.  she  Hies  to  hear  her  poet's  tale,  [among. 
And    "  Ai'TL'.MNV   name    resounds    his    shades 

THE   WINDS. 

Srnr.iME  the  pleasure,  meditating  song:. 

LuMM  l>v  the  piping  of  the  winds  to  lie, 

While,  ever  and  anon  collecting,  fly 
The  choir  still  swelling  as  they  haste  along, 

And  shake  with  full  JSolian  notes  the  sky. 
A  pause  ensues:   the  sprites,  that  lead  the  throng, 

Recall  their  force ;  and  first,  begin  to  sigh  ; 
Then    howls   the  gathering  stream   the   rocking 
domes  among. 

Methinks  I  hear  the  shrieking  spirits  oft 
Groan  in  the  blast,  and  flying  tempests  lead  : 

While  some  aerial  beings  sighing  soft     [plead; 
Round   once-loved   maids   their   guardian   wishes 

Spirits  of  torment  shrilly  speak  aloft, 
And  warn  the  wretch,  who  rolls  in  guilt,  to  heed. 


TO    EVENING. 

SWKET  Eve,  of  softest  voice  and  gentlest  beam. 

Say,  since  the  pensive  strains  thou  once  didst  hear 
Of  him,*  the  bard  sublime  of  Arun's  stream, 

Will  aught  beside  delight  thy  nicer  ear ! 
Me  wilt  thou  give  to  praise  thy  shadowy  gleam, 

Thy  fragrant  breath,  and  dying  murmurs  dear; 
The  mists,  that  o'er  thee  from  thy  valleys  steam, 

And  elfin  shapes  that  round  thy  car  appear ; 
The  music  that  attends  thy  state  ;  the  bell 

Of  distant  fold ;  the  gently  warbling  wind 
And  watch-dog's  hollow  voice  from-cottaged  dell! 

For  these  to  purest  pleasure  wake  the  mind ; 

Lull  each  tumultuous  passion  to  its  cell ; 
And  leave  soft,  soothing  images  behind. 

TO  A  LADY  IN  ILLNESS. 

NEW  to  the  world,  when  all  was  tairy  ground, 
And  shapes  romantic  stream'd  before  my  sight, 
Thy  beautv  caught  my  soul,  and  tints  as  bright 

And  fair  as  fancy's  dreams  in  thee  I  found. 

In  cold  experience  when  my  hopes  were  drown'd, 
And  life's  dark  clouds  o'er-veil'd  in  mists  of  night 
The  forms  that  wont  to  fill  me  with  delight, 

Thy  view  a  era  in  dispell'd  the  darkness  round. 

Shall  I  forget  thee,  when  the  pallid  cheek, 

The  sighing  voice,  wan  looks,  and  plaintive  air, 

No  more  the  roseate  hue  of  health  bespeak  1 
Shall  I  neglect  thee  as  no  longer  fair  ? 

No,  lovelv  maid  !   It'  in  my  heart  I  seek, 
Thy  beauty  deeply  is  engraven  there. 

TO  AUTUMN,  NEAR  HER  DEPARTURE. 

THOU  maid  of  gentle  light !  thy  straw-wove  vest, 
And  russet  cincture ;  thy  loose  pale-tinged  hair; 
Thy  melancholy  voice,  and  languid  air, 

As  if,  shut  up  within  that  pensive  breast, 

Some  ne'er-to-be-divulged  grief  was  prest ; 

Thy  looks  resign'd,  that  smiles  of  patience  wear, 
While  Winter's  blasts  thy  seatter'd  tresses  tear; 

Thee,  Autumn,  with  divinest  charms  have  blest  ! 

Let  bloomine:  Spring  with  gaudy  hojvs  delight 
That  dazzling  Summer  shall  of  her  be  born , 

Let  Summer  blaze ;  and  Winter's  stormy  train 

Breathe  awful  music  in  the  ear  of  Night ; 
Thee  will  I  court,  sweet  dying  maid  forlorn, 

And  from  thy  glance  will  catch  th'  inspired  strain. 

*  Collins. 
D 


38 


SIR  EGERTON  BRYDGES. 


TO  MARY. 

FROM  THE  NOVEL  OF  MARY   DE  CLIFFORD. 

WHERE  art  thou,  Mary,  pure  as  fair, 
And  fragrant  as  the  balmy  air, 
That,  passing,  steals  upon  its  wing 
The  varied  perfumes  of  the  spring  7 
With  tender  bosom,  white  as  snow  ; 
With  auburn  locks,  that  freely  flow 
Upon  thy  marble  neck ;  with  cheeks 
On  which  the  blush  of  morning  breaks ; 
Eyes,  in  whose  pure  and  heavenly  beams 
The  radiance  of  enchantment  seems ; 
A  voice,  whose  melting  tones  would  still 
The  madness  of  revenge  from  ill ; 
A  form  of  such  a  graceful  mould, 
We  scarce  an  earthly  shape  behold ; 
A  mind  of  so  divine  a  fire 
As  angels  only  could  inspire  ! — 
Where  art  thou,  Mary  1     For  the  sod 
Is  hallow'd  where  thy  feet  have  trod  ; 
And  every  leaf  that's  touch'd  by  thee 
Is  sanctified,  sweet  maid,  to  me. 
Where  dost  thou  lean  thy  pensive  head  "? 
Thy  tears  what  tender  tale  can  shed  1 
Where  dost  thou  stretch  thy  snowy  arm  ? 
And  with  thy  plaintive  accents  charm  ? 
But  hold  !  that  image  through  my  frame 
Raises  a  wild  tempestuous  flame. 


HASTINGS'  SONNETS." 


OLD  Harry  Hastings !  of  thy  forest  life 

How  whimsical,  how  picturesque  the  charms ! 
Yet  it  was  sensual !  With  thy  hounds  and  horn, 
How  cheerily  didst  thou  salute  the  morn  ! 

With  airy  steed  didst  thou  pursue  the  strife, 
Sounding  through  all  the  woodland  glades  alarms. 
Sunk  not  a  dell,  and  not  a  thicket  grew, 
But  thy  skilPd  eye  and  long  experience  knew. 

The  herds  were  thy  acquaintance ;  antler'd  deer 

Knew  where  to  trust  thy  voice,  and  where  to  fear ; 
And  through  the  shadowy  oaks  of  giant  size, 

Thy  bugle  could  the  distant  sylvans  hear;     [rise; 
And  wood-ny  mphsfrom  their  bo  wery  bed  would 
And  echoes  dancing  round  repeat  their  ec- 
stacies. 

*  "  Scarce  any  English  reader  of  biographical  anec- 
dotes is  unacquainted  with  the  character  of  HENRY  HAS- 
TINGS, of  Woodlands,  in  Dorsetshire,  given  by  Lord 
SHAFTESBURY  ;  which  maybe  seen  in  the  'Connoisseur,' 
in  Gilpiri's  '  New  Forest,'  and  in  the  last,  edition  of  '  Col- 
lins' Peerage,'  &c.  He  was  son  of  an  Earl  of  HUNTING- 
DON ;  he  lived  through  the  reigns  of  Queen  ELIZABETH, 
JAMES  I.,  and  CHARLES  I.,  and  died  on  the  verge  of  a 
hundred  years  of  age.  Like  CLAUDIAN'S  'Old  Man  of 
Verona,'  he  did  not  trouble  himself  with  affairs  of  state, 
but  enjoyed  his  own  country-life  amid  the  woods  and 
fields.  His  father  was  GEORGE,  fourth  earl,  who  died  in 
1605 ;  HENRY  died  5th  October,  Ifi50,  aged  ninety-nine. 
There  is  something  exceedingly  picturesque  in  the  ac- 
count of  this  HARRY  HASTINGS'  life  ;  and  I  am  willing  to 
delude  myself  with  the  belief,  that  the  following  sonnets 
not  unaptly  describe  it." 


A  century  did  not  thy  vigour  pale, 

Nor  war  and  rapine  thy  enjoyments  cloud  ; 
And  thy  halloos  were  gay,  and  clear,  and  loud, 

To  thy  last  days,  through  covert,  hill,  and  vale: 

The  keepers  heard  it  on  the  autumnal  gale, 
And  with  responsive  horns,  in  blasts  as  proud, 
Their  labours  to  the  cherish'd  service  vow'd, 

Delighted  their  old  merry  lord  to  hail. 

The  forest  girls  peep'd  out,  and  buxom  wives, 
And  in  the  leaf-strown  glades  and  yellow  lanes 

Each  for  the  kindly  salutation  strives, 

Which  to   their  smiles  the  gladsome  veteran 
deigns. 

Hark  how,  on  courser  mounted,  in  his  vest 

Of  green,  the  aged  sportsman  cracks  his  blithesome 
jest! 

nr. 
Then  comes  the  rude  and  hospitable  hall : 

Mark  how  abound  the  trophies  of  the  chase  ! 
How  thick  they  mingle  on  the  armour'd  wall ! 

What  antler'd  ornaments  the  portals  grace  ! 
There  blazon'd  shields  the  proud  remembrance  call 

Of  many  a  noble,  many  a  princely  race ; 
And  many  a  glorious  rise,  and  many  a  fall, 

As  upward  they  the  stream  of  ages  trace. 
How  glad  the  old  man,  far  from  civil  brawl, 

Of  a  more  tranquil  being  boasts  th'  embrace  ! 
His  sleeping  hounds,  round  the  hearth  gather'd, 
wake 

At  the  gay  burst  of  his  exulting  song; 
And  all,  his  joyous  bounty  to  partake, 

Leap  to  his  call,  and  round  his  table  throng. 

IV. 

To-morrow  will  the  music  of  their  cries 

Pierce  through  the  shadowy  solitudes  again, 
As  with  the  dawn  he  to  the  covert  hies, 

And  seeks  his  prey  amid  the  sylvan  reign. 
Behold  the  merry  men  chanting  in  his  train, 

See  how  the  coy  stag  listens  with  surprise ! 
In  troops  they  hasten  to  their  depths  again ; 

And  with  big  tears  his  fate  the  mark' d  one  eyes. 
Groans  through  the  forest,  echoes  from  the  hills, 

A  mingled  day  of  joy  and  grief  proclaim  : 
A  tempest  gathers,  and  the  welkin  fills, 

And  for  another  morning  saves  the  game. 
Then  on  the  Book  of  Sports  the  veteran  pores, 
And  deems  it  wiser  spell  than  learning's  lores. 

v. 

A  hundred  years  to  live,  and  live  in  joy  ! 
O  what  a  favour'd  fate  !     The  blessed  air, 
In  all  its  purity  of  leaf  and  flower; 
The  woodland  peace,  the  contemplative  hour ; 
The  stillness  which  no  city-broils  annoy  ; 
Security  from  envy,  malice,  care  ; 
The  gales  that  fragrance  to  the  spirit  bear;  [fair; 
The  scenes    in    nature's    unstain'd    brightness 
The  lulling  murmur  of  the  lonely  trees  ; 
The  ambient  bracing  of  the  buoyant  breeze  ; 
The  very  health  on  forest-beauty's  face ; 

The  form  robust  in  woodland  pastures  bred  ; — 
With  what  a  tranquil  and  unrumber'd  pace 

Might  thus  we  reach  the  slumbers  of  the 
dead! 


SIR    EGERTON    BRYDGES. 


But  is  congenial  quiet,  and  of  frame 

Sound  health,  sufficient  1   Does  not  mind  demand 

Food  and  exhilaration  1     Conscience,  ever 
Busy  within  us,  must  fulfil  its  aim ! 

Around  us  circles  an  aerial  band, 

Which  tells  us  spiritual  labours  to  endeavour; 

And  not  alone  the  senses  to  employ, 

As  the  pure  channels  of  our  earthly  joy  ! 
There  is,  within,  a  deity,  whose  desires 
We  must  sustain  and  feed  by  mental  fires  ; 
The  insate  mind,  but  from  without  supplied, 

Languishes  on  a  weak  imperfect  food  ; 
If  sustenance  more  spiritual  be  denied, 

With  flame  consuming  on  itself 't  will  brood ! 

vir. 

But  in  this  rural  life,  mid  nature's  forms 
Of  grandeur  and  of  beauty,  why  assume 
That  Harry  Hastings  had  no  inward  joy 

Of  sentiment,  and  conscience-cherish'd  thought! 
When  splendour  of  internal  structure  warms 
The  bosom's  lighted  mirrors,  which  allurne 
The  soul's  recesses,  spirits  then  employ 

Their  skill  in  webs  with  mingled  figures  wrought. 
Part  from  within  of  heavenly  elements, 

They  add  to  what  external  sense  supplies ; 
Then  mind  and  conscience  give  their  pure  assents, 

And  airy  shapes  start  up,  and  visions  rise ; 
And  though  the  fancies  pass  unspelt  away, 
Perchance  they  form  the  sunshine  of  the  day  ! 

VIII. 

There  is  exhilaration  in  the  chase — 

Not  bodily  only  !   Bursting  from  the  woods, 
Or  having  ciimb'd  some  misty  mountain's  height, 
When  on  our  eyes  a  glorious  prospect  opes, 
With  rapture  we  the  golden  view  embrace : 

Then  worshipping  the  sun,  on  silver  floods 
And  blazing  towers,  and  spires,  and  cities  bright 

With  his  reflected  beams;  and  down  the  slopes 
The  tumbling  torrents  ;  from  the  forest-mass 

Of  darkness  issuing,  we  with  double  force 
Along  the  gayly  checker'd  landscape  pass, 

And,  bounding  with  delight,  pursue  our  course. 
It  is  a  mingled  rapture,  and  we  find 
The  bodily  spirit  mounting  to  the  mind. 

ON  MOOR  PARK, 

FORMERT.Y  THE  SEAT  OF  SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE.  WHOSE 
HEART  WAS  BURIED  IN    THE  GARDEN  THERE. 

To  yonder  narrow  vale,  whose  high-sloped  sides 
Are  hung  with  airy  oaks,  and  umbrage  deep — 
Where  through  thick  shades  the  lulling  waters  creep; 

And  no  vile  noise  the  musing  mind  derides, 

But  silence  with  calm  solitude  abides — 
Temple  with  joy  retired,  that  he  might  keep 
A  course  of  quiet  days,  and  nightly  sleep 

Beneath  the  covering  wings  of  heavenly  guides — 

Virtue  and  peace  !     Here  he  in  sweet  repose 
Sigh'd  his  last  breath!  Here  Swift,  in  youth  reclined, 

Pass'd  his  smooth  days. — Oh.  had  he  longer  chose 
Retreats  so  pure,  perchance  his  nicer  mind, 

That  the  world's  wildering  follies  and  its  woes 
To  madness  shook,  had  ne'er  with  sorrows  pined  ! 


WRITTEN  AUGUST  20,  1807. 

THOUGH  in  my  veins  the  blood  of  monarchs  flow — 
Plantagenet  and  Tudor — not  for  these 
With  empty  boast  my  lifted  mind  I  please ; 

But  rather  that  my  heart's  emotions  glow 

With  the  pure  flame  the  muse's  gifts  bestow : 
Nor  would  it  my  aspiring  soul  appease, 
In  rank,  birth,  wealth,  to  loll  at  sensual  ease, 

And  none  but  folly's  stupid  flattery  know. 
But  yet  when  upstart  greatness  turns  an  eye 

Of  scorn  and  insult  on  my  modest  fame, 

And  on  descent's  pretensions  vain  would  try 

To  build  the  honours  of  a  nobler  name, 

With  pride  defensive  swelling,  I  exclaim,     [vie !" 
"  Base  one,  e'en  there  with  me  thou  dost  not 

WRITTEN  AT  PARIS,  MAY  10,  1825. 

STERX,  unexpecting  good,  unbent  by  wrong, 
I  travel  onward  through  this  gloomy  scene, 
With  brow  of  sorrow,  yet  erect  in  mien  ; 

Meek  to  the  humble,  in  defiance  strong, 

To  folly's,  envy's,  hatred's,  falsehood's  throng: 
Yet  knowing  that  the  birth  and  grave  between 
There  ever  will,  as  ever  there  have  been, 

Be  friendships  fickle,  warfares  deep  and  long  ! 

If  I  have  taught  the  truths  of  wisdom's  lore, 
If  I  have  drawn  the  secrets  of  the  heart, 

And  raised  the  glow  that  mounts  o'er  grief  and  ill — 

In  my  plain  verse  though  bloom  no  single  flower, 
And  not  a  ray  of  wit  its  lustre  dart, 

Its  naked  strength  o'er  death  will  triumph  still ! 

WRITTEN  AT  PARIS,  MAY  11,  1826. 

HIGH  name  of  poet ! — sought  in  every  age 

By  thousands — scarcely  won  by  two  or  three, — 

As  with  the  thorns  of  this  sad  pilgrimage 

My  bleeding  feet  are  doom'd  their  war  to  wage, 
'With  awful  worship  I  have  bow'd  to  thee  ! 
And  yet  perchance  it  is  not  fate's  decree, 
This  mighty  boon  should  be  assign'd  to  me, 

My  heart's  consuming  fever  to  assuage. — • 

Fountain  of  Poesy  !  that  liest  deep 

Within  the  bosom's  innermost  recesses, 
And  rarely  burstest  forth  to  human  ear, 

Break  out ! — and,  while  profoundly  magic  sleep 
With  pierceless  veil  all  outward  form  oppresses, 
Let  me  the  music  of  thy  murmurs  hear. 

WRITTEN  AT  LEE  PRIORY,  AUGUST  10,  1826. 

PRAISE  of  the  wise  and  good  ! — it  is  a  meed 

For  which  I  would  lone  years  of  toil  endure ; 

Which  many  a  peril,  many  a  grief  would  cure  ! 
As  onward  I  with  weary  feet  proceed, 
My  swelling  heart  continues  still  to  bleed  ; 

The  glittering  prize  holds  out  its  distant  lure, 

But  seems,  as  nearer  I  approach,  less  sure, 
And  never  to  my  prayer  to  be  decreed ! — 

With  anxious  ear  I  listen  to  the  voice 
That  shall  pronounce  the  precious  boon  I  ask  ; 

But  yet  it  comes  not,— or  it  comes  in  doubt — 
Slave  to  the  passion  of  my  earliest  choice, 

From  youth  to  age  I  ply  rny  daily  task, 
And  hope,  e'en  till  the  lamp  of  life  goes  out. 


JOANNA    BAILL1E. 


JOANNA  BAILLIE  was  born  in  Bothwell,  in 
Scotland,  of  an  honourable  family,  about  the 
year  17G5.  She  has  spent  the  greater  portion 
of  her  life  at  Hampstead,  near  London,  where 
she  now  resides.  When  she  began  to  write, 
she  tells  us  in  the  preface  to  a  volume  recently 
published,  not  one  of  all  the  eminent  authors 
of  modern  times  was  known,  and  Miss  SEWARD 
and  Mr.  HAYLEY  were  the  poets  spoken  of 
in  society.  The  brightest  stars  in  the  poeti- 
cal firmament,  with  very  few  exceptions,  have 
risen  and  set  since  then;  the  greatest  revo- 
lutions in  empire  and  in  opinion  have  taken 
place ;  but  she  has  lived  on  as  if  no  echo  of 
the  upturnings  and  overthrows  which  filled 
the  world  reached  the  quiet  of  her  home  ;  the 
freshness  of  her  inspirations  untarnished ; 
writing  from  the  fulness  of  a  true  heart  of 
themes  belonging  equally  to  all  the  ages. 
Personally  she  is  scarcely  known  in  literary 
society;  but  from  her  first  appearance  as 
an  author,  no  woman  has  commanded  more 
respect  and  admiration  by  her  works;  and 
the  most  celebrated  of  her  contemporaries 
have  vied  with  each  other  in  doing  her 
honour.  SCOTT  calls  her  the  Shakspeare  of 
her  sex. 

!  The  wild  harp  silent  hung 


By  silver  Avon's  h"ly  shore, 

Till  twice  a  hundred  years  roll'd  o'er, 

When  S.HE,  the  hold  enchantress,  came 

With  fearless  hand  and  heart  on  flame, — 

From  the  pale  willow  snatch'd  the  treasure, 

And  swept  it  with  a  kindred  measure, 

Till  Avon's  swans,  while  rung  the  grove 

With  Montfnrt's  hate  and  Btsil's  love, 

Awakening  at  the  inspiring  strain 

Deem'd  theirown  SHAKSPEARE  lived  again !" 

The  most  remarkable  of  her  works  are  her 
"  Plays  of  the  Passions,"  a  series  in  which 
each  passion  is  made  the  subject  of  a  tragedy 
and  a  comedy.  In  the  comedies  she  failed 
completely;  they  are  "pointless  tales  in  dia- 
logue. Her  tragedies,  however,  have  great 
merit,  though  possessing  a  singular  quality 
for  works  of  such  an  aim,  in  being  without  the 
earnestness  and  abruptness  of  actual  and  pow- 
erful feeling.  By  refinement  and  elaboration 
she  makes  the  passions  sentiments.  She  fears 


to  distract  attention  by  multiplying  incidents  ; 
her  catastrophes  are  approached  by  the  most 
gentle  gradations  ;  her  dramas  are  therefore 
slow  in  action  and  deficient  in  interest.  Her 
characters  possess  little  individuality;  they 
are  mere  generalizations  of  intellectual  attri- 
butes, theories  personified.  The  very  system 
of  her  plays  has  been  the  subject  of  critical 
censure.  The  chief  object  of  every  dramatic 
work  is  to  please  and  interest,  and  this  object 
may  be  arrived  at  as  well  by  situation  as  by 
character.  Character  distinguishes  one  per- 
son from  another,  while  by  passion  nearly  all 
men  are  alike.  A  controlling  passion  perverts 
character,  rather  than  developes  it;  and  it  is 
therefore  in  vain  to  attempt  the  delineation  of 
a  character  by  unfolding  the  progress  of  a 
passion.  It  has  been  well  observed  too,  that 
unity  of  passion  is  impossible,  since  to  give  a 
just  relief  and  energy  to  any  particular  pas- 
sion, it  should  be  presented  in  opposition  to 
one  of  a  different  sort,  so  as  to  produce  a  pow- 
erful conflict  in  the  heart. 

In  dignity  and  purity  of  style,  Miss  BAILLIE 
has  not  been  surpassed  by  any  of  the  poets  of 
her  sex.  Her  dialogue  is  formed  on  the 
Shaksperean  model,  and  she  has  succeeded 
perhaps  better  than  any  other  dramatist  in 
imitating  the  manner  of  the  greatest  poet  of 
the  world. 

"  De  Montfort"  we  believe  is  the  only  one 
of  Miss  BAILLJE'S  tragedies  which  has  been 
successfully  presented  in  the  theatres.  It  was 
performed  in  London  by  JOHN  KEMBLE,  and 
in  New  York  arid  Philadelphia  by  EDMUND 
KEAN  ;  but  no  actors  of  inferior  genius  have 
ventured  to  attempt  it,  and  it  will  probably 
never  again  be  brought  upon  the  stage. 

Besides  her  plays  Miss  BAILLIE  has  written 
"  A  View  of  the  General  Tenor  of  the  New 
Testament  regarding  the  Nature  and  Dignity 
of  Jesus  Christ,"  "Metrical  Legends  of  Emi- 
nent Characters,"  "Fugitive  Verses,"  and 
some  less  important  publications.  In  1827 
she  gave  the  world  a  new  volume  of  "  Plays 
on  the  Passions,"  and  in  18-12  Moxon  pub- 
lished her  "  Fugitive  Verses." 

40 


JOANNA    BAILLIE. 


41 


BIRTHDAY  LINES  TO  AGNES  BAILLIE. 

DEAR  Agnes,  gleam'J  with  joy  and  dash'd  with 

tears, 

O'er  us  have  glided  almost  sixty  years 
Since  we  on  Bothwell's  bonny  braes  were  seen, 
By  those  whose  eyes  long  closed  in  death  have  been, 
Two  tiny  imps,  who  scarcely  stoop'd  to  gather 
The  slender  hair-bell  on  the  purple  heather  ; 
No  taller  than  the  foxglove's  spiky  stem, 
That  dew  of  morning  studs  with  silvery  gem. 
Then  every  butterfly  that  cross'd  our  view 
With  joyful  shout  was  greeted  as  it  flew, 
And  moth  and  lady -bird  and  beetle  bright 
'  In  sheeny  gold  were  each  a  wondrous  sight 
Then  as  we  paddled  barefoot,  side  by  side, 
Among  the  sunny  shallows  of  the  Clyde, 
Minnows  or  spotted  paur  with  twinkling  fin, 
Swimming  in  mazzy  rings  the  pool  within, 
A  thrill  of  gladness  through  our  bosom  sent, 
Seen  in  the  power  of  early  wonderment.     .     .     . 

'Twas  thou  who  woo'dst  me  first  to  look 

Upon  the  page  of  printed  book, 

That  thing  by  me  abhorred,  and  with  address 

Didst  win  me  from  my  thoughtless  idleness, 

When  all  too  old  become  waa  bootless  haste 

In  fitful  sports  the  precious  time  to  waste. 

Thy  love  of  tale  and  story  was  the  stroke 

At  which  my  dormant  fancy  first  awoke, 

And  ghosts  and  witches  in  my  busy  brain 

Arose  in  sombre  show,  a  motley  train. 

This  new-found  path  attempting,  proud  was  I, 

Lurking  approval  on  thy  face  to  spy, 

Or  hear  thee  say,  as  grew  thy  roused  attention, 

"  What !  is  this  story  all  thine  own  invention  !" 

Then,  as  advancing;  through  this  mortal  span, 
Our  intercourse  with  the  mix'd  world  began, 
Thy  fairer  face  and  sprightlier  courtesy, 
(A  truth  that  from  my  youthful  vanity 
Lay  not  concealed)  did  for  the  sisters  twain, 
Where'er  we  went,  the  greater  favour  gain ; 
While,  but  for  thee,  vex'd  with  its  tossing  tide, 
I  from  the  busy  world  had  shrunk  aside. 
And  how  in  later  years,  with  better  grace 
Thou  help'st  me  still  to  hold  a  welcome  place 
With  those  whom  nearer  neighbourhood  has  made 
The  friendly  cheerers  of  our 'evening  shade. 

With  thee  my  humours,  whether  grave  or  gay, 

Or  gracious  or  untoward,  have  their  way. 

Silent,  if  dull — 0  precious  privilege  ! 

I  sit  by  thee  ;  or  if,  cull'd  from  the  page 

Of  some  huge,  ponderous  tome  which,  but  thyself, 

None  e'er  had  taken  from  its  dusty  shelf, 

Thou  read  me  curious  passages  to  speed 

The  winter  night,  I  take  but  little  heed 

And  thankless  say,  "  I  cannot  listen  now," 

'Tis  no  offence;  albeit,  much  do  I  owe 

To  these,  thy  nightly  offerings  of  affection, 

Drawn  from  thy  ready  talent  for  selection  ; 

For  still  it  seem'd  in  thee  a  natural  gift 

The  letter' d  grain  from  letter'd  chaff  to  sift. 

By  daily  use  and  circumstance  endear'd, 
Things  are  of  value  now  that  once  appear'd 


Of  no  account,  and  without  notice  past, 
Which  o'er  dull  life  a  simple  cheering  cast ; 
To  hear  thy  morning  steps  the  stair  descending, 
Thy  voice  with  other  sounds  domestic  blending ; 
After  each  stated  nightly  absence,  met 
To  see  thee  by  the  morning  table  set, 
Pouring  from  smoky  spout  the  amber  stream 
Which  sends  from  saucered  cup  its  fragrant  steam ; 
To  see  thee  cheerly  on  the  threshold  stand, 
On  summer  morn,  with  trowel  in  thy  hand 
For  garden-work  prepared  ;  in  winter's  gloom 
From  thy  cold  noon-day  walk  to  see  thee  come, 
In  furry  garment  lapt,  with  spatter'd  feet, 
And  by  the  fire  resume  thy  wonted  seat;   [thrown 
Ay,  even  o'er  things  like  these,  soothed  age  has 
A  sober  charm  they  did  not  always  own, 
As  winter  hoar-frost  makes  minutest  spray 
Of  bush  or  hedge-weed  sparkle  to  the  day, 
In  magnitude  and  beauty,  which  bereaved 
Of  such  investment,  eye  had  ne'er  perceived. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

WHOSE  imp  art  thou,  with  dimpled  cheek, 

And  curly  pate,  and  merry  eye, 
And  arm  and  shoulder  round  and  sleek, 

And  soft  and  fair] — thou  urchin  sly  ! 

WThat  boots  it  who  with  sweet  caresses 
First  called  thee  his, — or  squire  or  hind  ? 

Since  thou  in  every  wight  that  passes, 
Dost  now  a  friendly  playmate  find. 

Thy  downcast  glances,  grave,  but  cunning, 

As  fringed  eyelids  rise  and  fall ; 
Thy  shyness,  swiftly  from  me  running, 

Is  infantine  coquetry  all. 

But  far  a  field  thou  hast  not  flown  ; 

With  mocks,  and  threats,  half-lisp'd,  half-spoken, 
I  feel  thee  pulling  at  my  gown, 

Of  right  good  will  thy  simple  token. 

And  thou  must  laugh  and  wrestle  too, 
A  mimic  warfare  with  me  waging ; 

To  make,  as  wily  lovers  do, 

Thy  after  kindness  more  engaging. 

The  wilding  rose,  sweet  as  thyself, 

And  new-cropt  daisies  are  thy  treasure  : 

I  'd  gladly  part  with  worldly  pelf 

To  taste  again  thy  youthful  pleasure. 

But  yet,  for  all  thy  merry  look, 

Thy  frisks  and  wiles,  the  time  is  coming 

When  thou  shalt  sit  in  cheerless  nook, 
The  weary  spell  or  horn-book  thumbing. 

Well ;  let  it  be  ! — through  weal  and  wo, 
Thou  know'st  not  now  thy  future  range ; 

Life  is  a  motley,  shifting  show, 

And  thou  a  thing  of  hope  and  change. 
Dl 


42 


JOANNA    BAILLIE. 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 

Is  there  a  man,  that,  from  some  lofty  steep, 

Views  in  his  wide  survey  the  houndless  deep, 

When  its  vast  waters,  lined  with  sun  and  shade, 

Wave  heyond  wave,  in  serried  distance  fade 

To  the  pale  sky  ; — or  views  it,  dimly  seen, 

The  shifting  screens  of  drifted  mist  between, 

As  the  huge  cloud  dilates  its  sable  form, 

When  grandly  curtain'd  hy  the  approaching  storm, 

Who  feels  not  his  awed  soul  with  wonder  rise 

To  Him  whose  power  created  sea  and  skies, 

Mountains  and  deserts,  giving  to  the  sight 

The  wonders  of  the  day  and  of  the  night  ? 

But  let  some  fleet  be  seen  in  warlike  pride, 

Whose  stately  ships  the  restless  billows  ride, 

While  each,  with  lofty  masts  and  brightening  sheen 

Of  fair  spread  sails,  moves  like  a  vested  queen ; — 

Or  rather,  be  some  distant  bark,  astray, 

Seen  like  a  pilgrim  on  his  lonely  way, 

Holding  its  steady  course  from  port  and  shore, 

A  form  distinct,  a  speck,  and  seen  no  more, — 

How  doth  the  pride,  the  sympathy,  the  flame, 

Of  human  feeling  stir  his  thrilling  frame  ? 

"  O  Thou  !  whose  mandate  dust  inert  obey'd, 

What  is  this  creature  man  whom  thou  hast  made  1" 

On  Palos'  shore,  whose  crowded  strand 

Bore  priests  and  nobles  of  the  land, 

And  rustic  hinds  arid  townsmen  trim, 

And  harness'd  soldiers  stern  and  grim, 

And  lowly  maids  and  dames  of  pride, 

And  infants  by  their  mother's  side, — 

The  boldest  seaman  stood  that  e'er 

Did  bark  or  ship  through  tempest  steer  ; 

And  wise  as  bold,  and  good  as  wise ; 

The  magnet  of  a  thousand  eyes, 

That,  on  his  form  and  features  cast, 

His  noble  mien  and  simple  guise, 

In  wonder  seem'd  to  look  their  last. 

A  form  which  conscious  worth  is  gracing, 

A  face  where  hope,  the  lines  effacing 

Of  thought  and  care,  b'estow'd,  in  truth, 

To  the  quick  eyes'  imperfect  tracing, 

The  look  and  air  of  youth. 

Who,  in  his  lofty  gait,  and  high 
Expression  of  the  enlighten'd  eye, 
Had  recognised,  in  that  bright  hour, 
The  disappointed  suppliant  of  dull  power, 
Who  had  in  vain  of  states  and  kings  desired 
The  pittance  for  his  vast  emprise  required  ? — 
The  patient  sage,  who,  by  his  lamp's  faint  light, 
O'er  chart  and  map  spent  the  long  silent  night? — 
The  man  who  meekly  fortune's  buffets  bore, 
Trusting  in  One  alone,  whom  heaven  and  earth 
adore ! 

Another  world  is  in  his  mind, 

Peopled  with  creatures  of  his  kind, 

With  hearts  to  feel,  with  minds  to  soar, 

Thoughts  to  consider  and  explore  ; 

Souls  who  might  find,  from  trespass  shriven, 

Virtue  on  earth  and  joy  in  heaven. 

"  That  power  divine,  whom  storms  obey," 

(Whisper'd  his  heart,)  a  leading  star, 


Will  guide  him  on  his  blessed  way  ; 
Brothers  to  join  by  fate  divided  far. 
Vain  thoughts  !  which  heaven  doth  but  ordain 
In  part  to  be,  the  rest,  alas  !  how  vain  ! 

But  hath  there  lived  of  mortal  mould, 

Whose  fortunes  with  his  thoughts  could  hold 

An  even  race  !    Earth's  greatest  son 

That  e'er  earn'd  fame,  or  empire  won, 

Hath  but  fulfill'd,  within  a  narrow  scope, 

A  stinted  portion  of  his  ample  hope. 

With  heavy  sigh  and  look  depress'd, 

The  greatest  men  will  sometimes  hear 

The  story  of  their  acts  address'd 

To  the  young  stranger's  wondering  ear, 

And  check  the  half-swoln  tear. 

Is  it  or  modesty  or  pride 

W7hich  may  not  open  praise  abide  ? 

No ;  read  his  inward  thoughts :  they  trll, 

His  deeds  of  fame  he  prizes  well. 

But  ah  !  they  in  his  fancy  stand, 

As  relics  of  a  blighted  band, 

Who,  lost  to  man's  approving  sight, 

Have  perish'd  in  the  gloom  of  night, 

Ere  yet  the  glorious  light  of  day 

Had  glitter'd  on  their  bright  array. 

His  mightiest  feat  had  once  another, 

Of  high  imagination  born, — 

A  loftier  and  a  noble  brother, 

From  dear  existence  torn  ; 

And  she,  for  those  who  are  not,  steeps 

Her  soul  in  wo, — like  Rachel,  weeps. 


PATRIOTISM  AND  FREEDOM. 

INSENSIBLE  to  high  heroic  deeds, 

Is  there  a  spirit  cloth'd  in  mortal  weeds, 

Who  at  the  patriot's  moving  story, 
Devoted  to  his  country's  good, 

Devoted  to  his  country's  glory, 
Shedding  for  freemen's  rights  his  generous  blood, — 

Listeneth  not  with  deep  heaved  sigh, 

Quivering  nerve,  and  glistening  eye, 
Feeling  within  a  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
That  with  the  hero's  worth  may  humble  kindred 
claim  ? 

If  such  there  be,  still  let  him  plod 
On  the  dull  foggy  paths  of  care, 

Nor  raise  his  eyes  from  the  dank  sod 
To  view  creation  fair  : 

What  boots  to  him  the  wondrous  works  of  God  ? 
His  soul  with  brutal  things  hath  ta'en  its  earthly  lair. 

Oh  !  who  so  base  as  not  to  feel 

The  pride  of  freedom  once  enjoy'd, 
Though  hostile  gold  or  hostile  steel 

Have  long  that  bliss  destroy 'd  ? 

The  meanest  drudge  will  sometimes  vaunt 
Of  independent  sires,  who  bore 
Names  known  to  fame  in  days  of  yore, 

Spite  of  the  smiling  stranger's  taunt; 
But  recent  freedom  lost — what  heart 
Can  bear  the  humbling  thought— the  quickening, 
maddening  smart? 


JOANNA    BAILLIE. 


43 


FROM  THE  "TRAVELLER  BY  NIGHT.' 

— STILL  more  pleased,  through  murky  air, 
He  spies  the  distant  bonfire's  glare  ; 
And,  nearer  to  the  spot  advancing, 
Black  imps  and  goblins  round  it  dancing ; 
And  nearer  still,  distinctly  traces 
The  featured  disks  of  happy  faces, 
Grinning  and  roaring  in  their  glory, 
Like  Bacchants  wild  of  ancient  story, 
And  making  murgeons  to  the  flame, 
As  it  were  playmate  in  the  game. 
Full  well,  I  trow,  could  modern  stage 
Such  acting  for  the  nonce  engage, 
A  crowded  audience  every  night 
W'ould  press  to  see  the  jovial  sight; 
And  this,  from  cost  and  squeezing  free, 
November's  nightly  travellers  see. 

Through  village,  lane,  or  hamlet  going, 

The  light  from  cottage  window,  showing 

Its  inmates  at  their  evening  fare, 

By  rousing  fire,  where  earthenware 

With  pewter  trenchers,  on  the  shelf, 

Give  some  display  of  worldly  pelf, 

Is  transient  vision  to  the  eye 

Of  him  our  hasty  passer  by  ; 

Yet  much  of  pleasing  import  tells, 

And  cherish'd  in  his  fancy  dwells, 

Where  simple  innocence  and  mirth 

Encircle  still  the  cottage  hearth. 

Across  the  road  a  fiery  glare 

Doth  now  the  blacksmith's  forge  declare, 

Where  furnace-blast,  and  measured  din 

Of  heavy  hammers,  and  within 

The  brawny  mates  their  labour  plying, 

From  heated  bar  the  red  sparks  flying, 

Some  idle  neighbours  standing  by 

With  open  mouth  and  dazzled  eye : 

The  rough  and  sooty  walls  with  store 

Of  chains  and  horse-shoes  studded  o'er, 

And  rusty  blades  and  bars  between, 

All  momently  are  heard  and  seen 

Yet  this  short  scene  of  noisy  coil 

But  serves  our  traveller  as  a  foil, 

Enhancing  what  succeeds,  and  lending 

A  charm  to  pensive  quiet,  sending 

To  home  and  friends,  left  far  behind, 

The  kindliest  musings  of  his  mind  ; 

Or,  should  they  stray  to  thoughts  of  pain, 

A  dimness  o'er  the  haggard  train 

A  mood  and  hour  like  this  will  throw, 

As  vex'd  and  burden'd  spirits  know. 

Night,  loneliness,  and  motion  are 

Agents  of  power  to  distance  care ; 

To  distance,  not  discard  ;  for  then 

Withdrawn  from  busy  haunts  of  men, 

Necessity  to  act  suspended, 

The  present,  past,  and  future  blended, 

Like  figures  of  a  mazy  dance, 

Weave  round  the  soul  a  dreamy  trance, 

Till  jolting  stone  of  turnpike  gate 

Arouse  him  from  the  soothing  state. 


CONSTANCY. 

WITH  the  rough  blast  heaves  the  billow, 
In  the  light  air  waves  the  willow, 
Every  thing  of  moving  kind 
Varies  with  the  veering  wind  ; 
What  have  I  to  do  with  thee, 
Dull,  unjoyous  constancy  ? 

After  fretted,  pouting  sorrow, 
Sweet  will  be  thy  smile  to-morrow  ; 
Changing  still,  each  passing  thing 
Fairest  is  upon  the  wing  : 
What  have  I  to  do  with  thee, 
Dull,  unjoyous  constancy  1 

Song  of  love,  and  satire  witty, 
Sprightly  glee  and  doleful  ditty ; 
Every  mood  and  every  lay, 
Welcome  all,  but  do  not  stay  ; 
For  what  have  I  to  do  with  thee, 
Dull,  unjoyous  constancy  '! 


SONG. 

THE  morning  air  plays  on  my  face, 

And  through  the  gray  mist  peering 
The  soften'd  sun  I  sweetly  trace, 

Wood,  muir,  and  mountain  cheering. 
Larks  aloft  are  singing, 
Hares  from  covert  springing, 
And  o'er  the  fen  the  wild-duck  brood 
Their  early  way  are  winging. 

Bright  every  dewy  hawthorn  shines, 

Sweet  every  herb  is  growing, 
To  him  whose  willing  heart  inclines 
The  way  that  he  is  going. 

Clearly  do  I  see  now 
What  will  shortly  be  now  ; 
I'm  patting  at  her  door  poor  Tray, 

Who  fawns  and  welcomes  me  now. 

How  slowly  moves  the  rising  latch  ! 

How  quick  my  heart  is  beating ! 
That  worldly  dame  is  on  the  watch 
To  frown  upon  our  meeting. 

Fly  !  why  should  I  mind  her, 
See  who  stands  behind  her, 
Whose  eye  upon  her  traveller  looks 

The  sweeter  and  the  kinder. 

Oh  every  bounding  step  I  take, 

Each  hour  the  clock  is  telling, 
Bears  me  o'er  mountain,  bourn,  and  brake 
Still  nearer  to  her  dwelling. 

Day  is  shining  brighter, 
Limbs  are  moving  lighter, 
While  every  thought  to  Nora's  love, 

But  binds  my  love  the  tighter. 


ROBERT    BLOOMFIELD. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD  was  born  of  parents 
in  humble  circumstances-,  at  Honington,  in 
Suffolk,  on  the  third  of  December,  1766.  His 
mother,  being-  left  a  widow,  became  the  vil- 
lage school-mistress,  and  gave  him  the  only 
instruction  he  ever  received.  At  an  early  age 
he  was  sent  to  London  to  learn  of  an  elder 
brother  the  business  of  shoe-making.  In  his 
eighteenth  year  he  made  his  first  essay  in 
poetry.  It  was  in  a  garret,  amid  the  hammer- 
ing of  some  half  dozen  fellow-workmen,  that 
he  composed  The  Farmer's  Boy,  which,  for 
minute  and  graphic  description,  has  scarcely 
been  surpassed  by  any  poet  who  has  written 
in  the  English  language.  It  was  shown  to 
several  literary  men,  but  the  rude  hand- 
writing, and  the  personal  appearance  of  the 
author,  probably  prevented  its  being  properly 
examined,  until  it  was  sent  to  CAPEL  LOFFT, 
who  read  it,  and  by  his  recommendation  in- 


I  duced  Messrs.  Verner  and  Hood  to  publish 
I  it.  Its  success  was  immediate  and  very  great, 
I  nearly  forty  thousand  copies  having  been  sold 
during  the  lifetime  of  the  author.  After  the 
appearance  of  The  Farmer's  Boy,  BLOOMFIELD 
devoted  much  of  his  time  to  literature,  and 
published  several  volumes  of  poems,  none  of 
which,  however,  equalled  his  first  production. 
The  idea  of  The  Farmer's  Boy  was  probably 
derived  from  THOMSON'S  Seasons,  though,  as 
Mr.  LOFFT  remarks,  "  There  is  no  other  affi- 
nity between  the  two  than  flowing  numbers, 
feeling  piety,  poetic  imagery  and  animation, 
and  a  true  sense  of  the  natural  and  pathetic." 
Mr.  BLOOMFIELD  was  of  a  generous  and  affec- 
tionate nature,  and,  notwithstanding  the  pro- 
fits from  his  poems,  he  was  always  poor. 
He  died  at  vShefford,  in  Bedfordshire,  in 
August,  1823,  in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  his 
age. 


THE  BIRD-BOY. 

FAR  weightier  cares  and  wider  scenes  expand  ; 
What  devastation  marks  the  new-sown  land  ! 
"From  hungry  woodland  foes  go,  Giles,  and  guard 
The  rising  wheat ;  insure  its  great  reward  : 
A  future  sustenance,  a  summer's  pride, 
Demand  thy  vigilance  :  then  be  it  tried  : 
Exert  thy  voice,  and  wield  thy  shotless  gun: 
Go,  tarry  there  from  morn  till  setting  sun." 

Keen  blows  the  blast,  or  ceaseless  rain  descends ; 
The  half-stript  hedge  a  sorry  shelter  lends. 
Oh  for  a  hovel,  e'er  so  small  or  low, 
Whose  roof,  repelling  winds  and  early  snow, 
Might  bring  home's  comforts  fresh  before  his  eyes! 
No  sooner  thought,  than  see  the  structure  rise, 
In  some  sequester'd  nook,  embank'd  around, 
Sod  for  its  walls,  and  straw  in  burdens  bound : 
Dried  fuel  hoarded  in  his  richest  store, 
And  circling  smoke  obscures  his  little  door, 
Whence  creeping  forth,  to  duty's  call  he  yields, 
And  strolls  the  Crusoe  of  the  lonely  fields. 
On  whitethorns  towering,  and  the  leafless  rose, 
A  frost-nipt  feast  in  bright  vermilion  glows : 
Where  clustering  sloes  in  glossy  order  rise, 
He  crops  the  loaded  branch  ;  a  cumbrous  prize  ; 
And  o'er  the  flame  the  sputtering  fruit  he  rests, 
Placing  green  sods  to  seat  his  coming  guests ; 
His  guests  by  promise;  playmates  young  and  gay; 
But  ah !  fresh  pastimes  lure  their  steps  away  ! 
He  sweeps  his  hearth,  and  homeward  looks  in  vain, 
Till  feeling  disappointment's  cruel  pain, 
44 


His  fairy  revels  are  exchanged  for  rage, 
His  banquet  marr'd,  grown  dull  his  hermitage. 
The  field  becomes  his  prison,  till  on  high 
Benighted  birds  to  shades  and  coverts  fly. 
Midst  air,  health,  daylight,  can  he  prisoner  be  1 
If  fields  are  prisons,  where  is  liberty  ] 
Here  still  she  dwells,  and  here  her  votaries  stroll; 
But  disappointed  hope  untunes  the  soul; 
Restraints  unfelt  whilst  hours  of  rapture  flow, 
When  troubles  press,  to  chains  and  barriers  grow. 
Look,  then,  from  trivial  up  to  greater  woes ; 
From  the  poor  bird-boy  with  his  roasted  sloes, 
To  where  the  dungeon'd  mourner  heaves  the  sigh; 
Where  not  one  cheering  sunbeam  meets  his  eye. 
Though  ineffectual  pity  thine  may  be, 
No  wealth,  no  power,  to  set  the  captive  free ; 
Though  only  to  thy  ravish'd  sight  is  given 
The  radiant  path  that  Howard  trod  to  Heaven ; 
Thy  slights  can  make  the  wretched  more  forlorn, 
And  deeper  drive  affliction's  barbed  thorn. 
Say  not,  "  I'll  come  and  cheer  thy  gloomy  cell 
With  news  of  dearest  friends ;  how  good,  how  well : 
I'll  be  a  joyful  herald  to  thine  heart:" 
Then  fail,  and  play  the  worthless  trifler's  part, 
To  sip  flat  pleasures  from  thy  glass's  brim, 
And  waste  the  precious  hour  that's  due  to  him. 
In  mercy  spare  the  base,  unmanly  blow : 
Where  can  he  turn,  to  whom  complain  of  you  ? 
Back  to  past  joys  in  vain  his  thoughts  may  stray, 
Trace  and  retrace  the  beaten,  worn-out  way, 
The  rankling  injury  will  pierce  his  breast, 
And  curses  on  thee  break  his  midnight  rest. 


ROBERT    BLOOMFIELD. 


45 


ADDRESS  TO  HIS  NATIVE  VALE. 

Ox  thy  calm  joys  with  what  delight  I  dream 
Thou  dear  green  valley  of  my  native  stream ! 
Fancy  o'er  thee  still  waves  the  enchanting  wand, 
And  every  nook  of  thine  is  fairy  land, 
And  ever  will  he,  though  the  axe  should  smite 
In  gain's  rude  service,  and  in  pity's  spite, 
Thy  clustering  alders,  and  at  length  invade 
The  last,  last  poplars  that  compose  thy  shade  : 
Thy  stream  shall  then  in  native  freedom  stray, 
And  undermine  the  willows  in  its  way ; 
These,  nearly  worthless,  may  survive  this  storm, 
This  scythe  of  desolation,  call'd  "Reform." 
No  army  pass'd  that  way  !  yet  are  they  fled, 
The  boughs  that,  when  a  schoolboy,  screen'd  my 

head: 

I  hate  the  murderous  axe ;  estranging  more 
The  winding  vale  from  what  it  was  of  yore, 
Than  e'en  mortality  in  all  its  rage,     - 
And  all  the  change  of  faces  in  an  age. 
«  Warmth,"  will  they  term  it,  that  I  speak  so  free? 
They  strip  thy  shades, — thy  shades  so  dear  to  me  ! 


HARVEST-HOME. 

Now,  ere  sweet  summer  bids  its  long  adieu, 
And  winds  blow  keen  where  late  the  blossom  grew, 
The  bustling  day  and  jovial  night  must  come, 
The  long-accustom'd  feast  of  harvest-home. 
No  blood-stain'd  victory,  in  story  bright, 
Can  give  the  philosophic  mind  delight; 
No  triumph  please  while  rage  and  death  destroy; 
Reflection  sickens  at  the  monstrous  joy. 
And  where  the  joy,  if  rightly  understood, 
Like  cheerful  praise  for  universal  good  ] 
The  soul  nor  check  nor  doubtful  anguish  knows, 
But  free  and  pure  the  grateful  current  flows. 
Behold  the  sound  oak  table's  massy  frame 
Bestride  the  kitchen  floor !  the  careful  dame 
And  generous  host  invite  their  friends  around, 
While  all  that  clear'd  the  crop,  or  till'd  the  ground, 
Are  guests  by  right  of  custom: — old  and  young; 
And  many  a  neighbouring  yeoman  join  the  throng, 
With  artisans  that  lent  their  dexterous  aid, 
When  o'er  each  field  the  flaming  sunbeams  play'd. 

Yet  plenty  reigns,  and  from  her  boundless  hoard, 
Though  not  one  jelly  trembles  on  the  board, 
Supplies  the  feast  with  all  that  sense  can  crave ; 
With  all  that  made  our  great  forefathers  brave, 
Ere  the  cloy'd  palate  countless  flavours  tried, 
And  cooks  had  nature's  judgment  set  aside. 
With  thanks  to  Heaven,  and  tales  of  rustic  lore, 
The  mansion  echoes  when  the  banquet's  o'er ; 
A  wider  circle  spreads,  and  smiles  abound 
As  quick  the  frothing  horn  performs  its  round  ; 
Care's  mortal  foe  ;  that  sprightly  joys  imparts 
To  cheer  the  frame  and  elevate  their  hearts. 


Here,  fresh  and  brown,  the  hazel's  produce  lies 
In  tempting  heaps,  and  peals  of  laughter  rise, 
And  crackling  music,  with  the  frequent  song, 
Unheeded  bear  the  midnight  hour  along. 

Here  once  a  year  distinction  lowers  its  crest, 
The  master,  servant,  and  the  merry  guest, 
Are  equal  all ;  and  round  the  happy  ring 
The  reaper's  eyes  exulting  glances  fling, 
And,  warm'd  with  gratitude,  he  quits  his  place, 
With  sun-burnt  hands  and  ale-enliven'd  face, 
Refills  the  jug  his  honour'd  host  to  tend, 
To  serve  at  once  the  master  and  the  friend ; 
Proud  thus  to  meet  his  smiles,  to  share  his  tale, 
His  nuts,  his  conversation,  and  his  ale. 


THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  HOUR-GLASS. 

COME,  friend,  I'll  turn  thee  up  again: 

Companion  of  the  lonely  hour  ! 
Spring  thirty  times  hath  fed  with  rain 

And  clothed  with  leaves  my  humble  bower, 
Since  thou  hast  stood 
In  frame  of  wood, 
On  chest  or  window  by  my  side : 

At  every  birth  still  thou  wert  near, 

Still  spoke  thine  admonitions  clear, — 
And,  when  my  husband  died. 

I've  often  watch'd  thy  streaming  sand, 
And  seen  the  growing  mountain  rise, 

And  often  found  life's  hopes  to  stand 
On  props  as  weak  in  wisdom's  eyes : 
Its  conic  crown 
Still  sliding  down, 

Again  heap'd  up,  then  down  again ; 
The  sand  above  more  hollow  grew, 
Like  days  and  years  still  filtering  through, 

And  mingling  joy  and  pain. 

While  thus  I  spin  and  sometimes  sing, 
(For  now  and  then  my  heart  will  glow,) 

Thou  measurest  Time's  expanding  wing; 
By  thee  the  noontide  hour  I  know: 
Though  silent  thou, 
Still  shalt  thou  flow, 

And  jog  along  thy  destined  way: 
But  when  I  glean  the  sultry  fields, 
When  earth  her  yellow  harvest  yields, 

Thou  gett'st  a  holiday. 

Steady  as  truth,  on  either  end 

Thy  daily  task  performing  well, 
Thou  'rt  meditation's  constant  friend, 

And  strik'st  the  heart  without  a  bell : 
Come,  lovely  May  ! 
Thy  lengthen'd  day 
Shall  gild  once  more  my  native  plain ; 

Curl  inward  here,  sweet  woodbine  flower : 

"  Companion  of  the  lonely  hour, 
I'll  turn  thee  up  again." 


JOHN    H.    FRERE. 


THE  Right  Honourable  JOHN  HOOKHAM 
FRERE,  of  Roydon  Hall  in  Norfolk,  was  born 
on  the  twenty-fourth  of  May,  1769.  He  is  a 
brother  of  Sergeant  FRERE,  and  of  BARTHO- 
LOMEW FRERE,  sometime  minister  in  Spain 
and  at  Constantinople.  He  was  Under-secre- 
tary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs  in  1799  ;  En- 
voy at  Lisbon  in  1800,  and  at  Madrid  in  1802. 
He  was  minister  to  Spain  in  1808,  and  in  the 
following  year,  the  Castilian  title  of  Marques 
de  la  Union  was  conferred  on  him  by  the 
Junta,  which  the  Prince  Regent  permitted 
him  to  accept.  During  his  residence  in  Spain, 
his  rash  and  arrogant  interference  with  the 
English  generals  greatly  injured  his  reputa- 
tion. His  dictation  to  Sir  JOHN  MOORE  was 
profoundly  absurd;  and  Sir  ARTHUR  WEL- 
LESLEY  found  him  so  impracticable  that  he 
requested  he  might  be  recalled.  In  1816 
Mr.  FRERE  married  the  Dowager  Countess  of 
Errol.  For  some  years  past  he  has  resided  in 
Malta. 

In  literature,  Mr.  FRERE'S  name  is  associated 
with  some  of  the  most  brilliant  and  successful 
works  of  his  times.  He  was  a  contributor  to 
the  "Etonian;"  he  assisted  in  the  composi- 
tion of  some  of  the  most  admirable  pieces  in 
the  "  Anti- Jacobin ;"  and  was  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  "  Quarterly  Review."  But 
for  a  long  time,  he  seems  to  have  valued  the 
pleasures  of  study  beyond  the  praise  of  au- 


thorship.* The  work  from  which  the  extracts 
in  this  collection  are  made,  may  be  regarded 
as  the  immediate  original  of  "Don  Juan." 
BYRON,  however,  was  anxious  to  have  it 
thought  that  he  had  derived  his  models  from 
a  remoter  source ;  and  translated  the  "  Mor- 
gante  Maggiore"  chiefly,  it  would  seem,  for 
the  purpose  of  telling  the  world  that  FRERE 
as  well  as  himself  was  but  a  reviver  of  the 
old  manner  of  BERNI  and  PULCI.  BYRON  says 
of  PULCI,  in  the  preface  to  that  translation,  "He 
is  no  less  the  founder  of  a  new  style  of  poetry 
very  lately  sprung  up  in  England  ;  I  allude 
to  that  of  the  ingenious  WHISTLECRAFT." 
But  the  merits  of  the  two  moderns  are  quite 
distinct.  FRERE'S  excellence  consists,  almost 
exclusively,  in  manner  ;  which  presents  such 
a  combination  of  oddity  with  grace,  of  affec- 
tation with  perfect  good  taste,  as  makes  a 
very  curious  and  agreeable  study  for  the  cul- 
tivated reader.  BYRON  could  not  maintain 
the  tone  of  this  delicate  and  peculiar  style; 
instead  of  interfusing  the  grave  with  the  hu- 
morous, or  keeping  skilfully  upon  the  boun- 
dary line  between  them,  his  method  consists 
rather  in  rapid  transitions  from  the  extremes 
of  either.  But  the  praise  of  this  mere  artist- 
merit  may  well  be  foregone,  in  view  of  the 
rare  material,  the  fancy,  thought,  passion, 
pathos,  and  all  that  can  glorify  poetry,  with 
which  BYRON'S  pieces  are  crowded. 


PROSPECTUS  AND  SPECIMEN 

OF  AN  INTENDED  NATIONAL  WORK,  BY  WILLIAM 
AND  ROBERT  WHISTLECRAFT,  OF  STOW-MARKET, 
IN  SUFFOLK,  HARNESS  AND  COLLAR-MAKERS : 
INTENDED  TO  COMPRISE  THE  MOST  INTEIIESTIN& 
PARTICULARS  RELATING  TO  KING  ARTHUR  AND 
HIS  ROUND  TABLE. 


THE  PROEM. 

I'VE  often  wish'd  that  I  could  write  a  book, 
Such  as  all  English  people  might  peruse; 

I  never  should  regret  the  pains  it  took, 

That's  just  the  sort  of  fame  that  I  should  chuse  : 

To  sail  about  the  world  like  Captain  Cook, 
I'd  sling  a  cot  up  for  my  favourite  Muse, 

And  we'd  take  verses  out  to  Demarara, 

To  New  South  Wales,  and  up  to  Niagara. 
46 


Poets  consume  exciseable  commodities,, 

They  raise  the  nation's  spirit  when  victorious, 

They  drive  an  export  trade  in  whims  and  oddities, 
Making  our  commerce  and  revenue  glorious  ; 

As  an  industrious  and  pains-taking  body  'tis 
That  poets  should  be  reckon'd  meritorious ; 

And  therefore  I  submissively  propose 

To  erect  one  board  for  verse  and  one  for  prose. 

*  When  very  young  FRERE  translated  the  old  ^axon 
poem  on  the  victory  of  Athelstan  at  Brunnanbureh.  Sir 
James  Mackintosh  thus  alludes  toil:  "  A  translation, 
made  by  a  school-hoy  in  the  eighteenth  century,  of  this 
Saxon  poem  of  the  tenth  century,  into  the  English  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  ia  a  double  imitation,  unmatched,  per- 
haps, in  literary  history,  in  which  the  writer  gave  an 
earnest  of  that  faculty  of  catching:  the  peculiar  genius 
arid  preserving  the  characteristic  manner  of  his  original, 
which,  though  the  specimens  of  it  be  too  few,  places  him 
alone  among  English  translators." — Mackintosh's  Eng- 
land, vol.  i.  p.  52. 


JOHN    H.    FRERE. 


47 


Princes  protecting  sciences  and  art 

I've  often  seen,  in  copper-plate  and  print; 

I  never  saw  them  elsewhere,  for  my  part, 

And  therefore  I  conclude  there's  nothing  in't; 

But  everybody  knows  the  Regent's  heart ; 
I  trust  he  won't  reject  a  well-meant  hint ; 

Each  board  to  have  twelve  members,  with  a  seat 

To  bring  them  in  per  ann.  five  hundred  neat : — 

From  princes  t  descend  to  the  nobility  : 

In  former  times  all  persons  of  high  stations, 

Lords,  baronets,  and  persons  of  gentility, 
Paid  twenty  guineas  for  the  dedications  : 

This  practice  was  attended  with  utility  ; 
The  patrons  lived  to  future  generations, 

The  poets  lived  by  their  industrious  earning, — 

So  men  alive  and  dead  could  live  by  learning. 

Then,  twenty  guineas  was  a  little  fortune  ;  [mend : 
Now,  we  must  starve  unless  the  times  should 

Our  poets  now-a-days  are  deem'd  importune 
If  their  addresses  are  diffusely  penn'd ; 

Most  fashionable  authors  make  a  short  one 
To  their  own  wife,  or  child,  or  private  friend, 

To  show  their  independence,  I  suppose ; 

And  that  may  do  for  gentlemen  like  those. 

Lastly,  the  common  people  I  beseech — 

Dear  people !  if  you  think  my  verses  clever, 

Preserve  with  care  your  noble  parts  of  speech, 
Arid  take  it  as  a  maxim  to  endeavour 

To  t;ilk  as  your  good  mothers  used  to  teach, 
And  then  these  lines  of  mine  may  last  for  ever ; 

And  don't  confound  the  language  of  the  nation 

With  long-tail'd  words  in  osity  and  ation. 

I  think  that  poets  (whether  Whig  or  Tory) 
(Whether  they  go  to  meeting  or  to  church) 

Should  study  to  promote  their  country's  glory 
With  patriotic,  diligent  research  ; 

That  children  yet  unborn  may  learn  the  story, 
With  grammars,  dictionaries,  canes,  and  birch : 

It  stands  to  reason — This  was  Homer's  plan, 

And  we  must  do — like  him — the  best  we  can. 

Madoc  and  Marmion,  and  many  more, 

Are  out  in  print,  and  most  of  them  are  sold ; 
Perhaps  together  they  may  make  a  score ; 

Richard  the  First  has  had  his  story  told, 
But  there  were  lords  and  princes  long  before, 

That  had  behaved  themselves  like  warriors  bold  ; 
Among  the  rest  there  was  the  great  King  Arthur, 
What  hero's  fame  was  ever  carried  farther  1 

• 
King  Arthur,  and  the  Knights  of  his  Round  Table, 

Were  reckon'd  the  best  king,  and  bravest  lords, 
Of  all  that  flourished  since  the  tower  of  Babel, 

At  least  of  all  that  history  records ; 
Therefore  I  shall  endeavour,  if  I'm  able, 

To  paint  their  famous  actions  by  my  words  : 
Heroes  exert  themselves  in  hopes  of  fame, 
And  having  such  a  strong  decisive  claim, 

It  grieves  me  much,  that  names  that  were  respected 
In  former  ages,  persons  of  such  mark, 

And  countrymen  of  ours,  should  lie  neglected, 
Just  like  old  portraits  lumbering  in  the  dark: 

An  error  such  as  this  should  be  corrected, 
And  if  my  Muse  can  strike  a  single  spark, 


Why  then  (as  poets  say)  I'll  string  my  lyre ; 
And  then  I  '11  light  a  great  poetic  fire ; 

I'll  air  them  all,  and  rub  down  the  Round  Table, 
And  wash  the  canvas  clean,  and  scour  the  frames, 

And  put  a  coat  of  varnish  on  the  fable, 

And  try  to  puzzle  out  the  dates  and  names ; 

Then  (as  I  said  before)  I  '11  heave  my  cable, 
And  take  a  pilot,  and  drop  down  the  Thames — 

— These  first  eleven  stanzas  make  a  proem, 

And  now  I  must  sit  down  and  write  my  poem. 


SIR  GAWAIN. 

SIR  Gawain  may  be  painted  in  a  word — 

He  was  a  perfect  loyal  cavalier ; 
His  courteous  manners  stand  upon  record, 

A  stranger  to  the  very  thought  of  fear. 
The  proverb  says,  As  brave  as  his  own  sword ; 

And  like  his  weapon  was  that  worthy  peer, 
Of  admirable  temper,  clear  and  bright, 
Polish'd  yet  keen,  though  pliant  yet  upright. 

On  every  point,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 

His  judgment,  and  his  prudence,  and  his  wit, 

Were  deem'd  the  very  touchstone  and  the  test 
Of  what  was  proper,  graceful,  just,  and  fit ; 

A  word  from  him  set  every  thing  at  rest 
His  short  decisions  never  fail'd  to  hit; 

His  silence,  his  reserve,  his  inattention, 

Were  felt  as  the  severest  reprehension : 

His  memory  was  the  magazine  and  hoard, 

Where  claims  and  grievances,  from  year  to  year, 

And  confidences  and  complaints  were  stored,  [peer: 
From  dame  and  knight,  from  damsel,  boor,  and 

Loved  by  his  friends,  and  trusted  by  his  lord, 
A  generous  courtier,  secret  and  sincere, 

Adviser-general  to  the  whole  community, 

He  served  his  friend,  but  watch'd  his  opportunity. 

One  riddle  I  could  never  understand — 

But  his  success  in  war  was  strangely  various; 

In  executing  schemes  that  others  plann'd, 
He  seem'd  a  very  Caesar  or  a  Marius  ; 

Take  his  own  plans,  and  place  him  in  command, 
Your  prospect  of  success  became  precarious : 

His  plans  were  good,  but  Launcelot  succeeded 

And  realized  them  better  far  than  he  did. 

His  discipline  was  steadfast  and  austere, 
Unalterably  fix'd,  but  calm  and  kind  ; 

Founded  on  admiration,  more  than  fear, 
It  seem'd  an  emanation  from  his  mind ; 

The  coarsest  natures  that  approach'd  him  near 
Grew  courteous  for  the  moment  and  refined ; 

Beneath  his  eye  the  poorest,  weakest  wight 

Felt  full  of  point  of  honour,  like  a  knight. 

In  battle  he  was  fearless  to  a  fault, 

The  foremost  in  the  thickest  of  the  field  ; 

His  eager  valour  knew  no  pause  nor  halt, 
And  the  red  rampant  lion  in  his  shield 

Scaled  towns  and  towers,  the  foremost  in  assault, 
With  ready  succour  where  the  battle  reel'd  : 

At  random  like  a  thunderbolt  he  ran,  [man. 

And  bore  down  shields,  and  pikes,  and  horse,  and 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  was  born  at  Cock- 
ermouth,  in  Cumberland,  on  the  seventh  of 
April,  1770.  With  his  brother,  (the  Rev.  Dr. 
WORDSWORTH,  author  of  Greece,  Historical 
and  Picturesque,)  he  was  sent  at  an  early  age 
to  the  Hawkshead  grammar  school,  in  Lan- 
cashire, whence,  in  his  seventeenth  year,  he 
was  removed  to  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
bridge. On  leaving  the  university,  he  made 
the  pedestrian  tour  through  France,  Switzer- 
land and  Italy,  commemorated  in  his  De- 
scriptive Sketches  in  Verse,  which,  with  an 
Epistle  to  a  Young  Lady  from  the  Lakes  in 
the  North  of  England,  were  published  in 
1793.  He  was  in  Paris  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  French  Revolution,  lodging  in 
the  same  house  with  BRISSOT,  but  was  driven 
from  the  city  by  the  Reign  of  Terror.  Re- 
turned to  England,  he  passed  a  considerable 
time  at  Alfoxden,  in  Somersetshire,  where  he 
became  intimately  acquainted  with  COLERIDGE. 
It  was  during  his  residence  here  that  he  com- 
pleted the  first  volume  of  his  Lyrical  Ballads, 
which  was  published  in  1798.  He  soon  after 
made  a  tour  through  a  part  of  Germany,  where 
he  was  joined  by  COLERIDGE,  with  whom,  at 
the  end  of  thirty  years,  he  revisited  that  coun- 
try. In  1803  he  married  MARY  HUTCHINSON, 
and  settled  atGrassmere,  a  home  subsequently 
exchanged  for  his  present  beautiful  residence  at 
Rydal,  in  Westmoreland.  In  1807  he  published 
a  second  volume  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  and  in 
1809  a  prose  work  On  the  Relations  of  Great 
Britain,  Spain  and  Portugal  to  each  other. 
In  1814  appeared  The  Excursion,  "being  a 
portion  of  The  Recluse,  a  poem,"  which  was 
followed,  in  1815,  by  The  White  Doe  of 
Rylstone;  in  1819  by  Peter  Bell  the  Wag- 
goner; in  1820  by  The  River  Duddon,  a 
series  of  sonnets,  Vaudracour  and  Julia  and 
other  pieces,  and  Ecclesiastical  Sketches ;  in 
1822  by  Memorials  of  a  Tour  on  the  Conti- 
nent, and  A  Description  of  the  Lakes  in  the 
North  of  England ;  in  1835  by  Yarrow  Re- 
visited and  other  Poems;  and  in  1842  by  his 
last  volume,  Poems  chiefly  of  Early  and  Late 
Years,  including  The  Borderers,  a  Tragedy, 
written  in  1785. 


Sir  ISAAC  NEWTON  is  reported  to  have  said 
that  any  man  of  good  ability  who  could  have 
paid  the  same  long  and  undivided  attention 
to  mathematical  pursuits  that  he  had,  would 
have  wrought  out  the  same  results.  Probably 
almost  any  thoughtful  and  well-educated  per- 
son, devoting  a  long  and  quiet  life  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  poetry,  would  sometimes  produce 
passages  of  sublimity  and  beauty.  Mr. 
WORDSWORTH  has  produced  very  many  such; 
but  he  has  written  no  single  great  poem,  har- 
monious and  sustained,  unless  exceptions  be 
found  in  two  or  three  of  his  shorter  pieces. 
In  the  beginning  of  his  career,  acting  upon 
the* belief  that  a  man  of  genius  must  "shape 
his  own  road,"  he  affected  an  originality  of 
style.  He  determined  to  be  simple,  and  be- 
came puerile;  he  disdained  to  owe  anything 
to  the  dignity  of  his  subjects,  and  often 
selected  such  as  were  contemptible.  He 
complained  that  poetry  had  been  written  in 
an  inflated  and  unnatural  diction,  compounded 
of  a  "certain  class  of  ideas  and  expressions," 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  and  vaunted  of 
his  courage  in  setting  these  aside.  But  the 
complaint  was  ill-grounded ;  there  was  man- 
nerism enough,  inflation  enough,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  this  century,  but  there  was  also 
genuine  simplicity  and  tenderness,  and  inde- 
pendence of  feeling  and  expression.  CHAUCER 
and  SPENSER,  SHAKSPEARE  and  MILTON,  were 
studied  as  well  as  POPE  ;  and  COWPER  and 
THOMSON  and  BURNS  had  as  truly  as  himself 
written  "  the  real  language  of  men  in  a  state 
of  vivid  sensation."  The  principles  he  osten- 
tatiously avowed  were  a  mere  repetition  of 
what  nearly  every  poet  whose  works  retain  a 
place  in  English  literature  had  practically 
acknowledged.  Sportsmen  have  a  phrase, 
"running  the  thing  into  the  ground,"  which 
has  been  applied  to  the  racing  of  asses; 
and  Mr.  WORDSWORTH,  in  the  White  Doe  of 
Rylstone,  Peter  Bell,  and  other  pieces,  has 
merely  applied  the  art  to  simplicity  of  diction. 
In  him  mannerism,  an  obstinate  adherence  to 
a  theory,  well  nigh  ruined  a  great  poet;  for 
such  he  has  shown  himself  to  be  when 
the  divine  afflatus  has  obtained  a  mastery 

43 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


49 


over  the  rules  by  which  he  has  chosen  to  be 
fettered.  The  general  scope  of  his  poetry  is 
shown  in  the  following  extract  from  the  con- 
clusion of  the  first  book  of  The  Recluse,  intro- 
duced into  the  preface  to  The  Excursion  : 

ON  man,  on  nature,  and  on  human  life, 
Musing  in  solitude,  I  oft  perceive 
Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise, 
Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight, 
Pure,  or  with  no  unpleasing  sadness  mix'd; 
And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 
And  dear  remembrances,  whose  presence  soothes 
Or  elevates  the  mind,  intent  to  weigh 
The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 
To  these  emotions,  whencesoe'er  they  come, 
Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 
Or  from  the  soul — an  impulse  to  herself, — 
I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous  verse. 
Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love,  and  hope — 
And  melancholy  fear  subdued  by  faith; 
Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress; 
Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual  power; 
Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread  ; 
Of  the  individual  mind  that  keeps  her  own 
Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 
To  conscience  only,  and  the  law  supreme 
Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs  all ; 
I  sing !— "  fit  audience  let  me  find,  though  few  !"  • 

So  pray'd,  more  gaining  than  he  ask'd,  the  bard, 
Holiest  of  men — URA.NIA,  I  sh;ill  need 
Thy  guidance,  or  a  greater  muse,  if  such 
Descend  to  earth  or  dwell  in  highest  heaven  ! 
For  I  must  tread  on  shadowy  ground,  must  sink 
Deep — and,  aloft  ascending,  breathe  in  worlds 
To  which  the  heaven  of  heavens  is  but  a  veil. 
All  strength,  all  terror,  single  or  in  bands, 
That  ever  was  put  forth  in  personal  form ; 
Jehovah — with  his  thunder  and  the  choir 
Of  shouting  angels,  and  the  empyreal  thrones— 
I  pass  them  unalarm'd.     Not  Chaos,  not 
The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 
Nor  aught  of  blinder  vacancy— scoop'd  out 
By  help  of  dreams — can  breed  such  fear  and  awe 
As  fill  upon  us  often  when  we  look 
Into  our  minds,  into  the  mind  of  man, 
My  haunt,  and  the  main  region  of  my  song. 

By  words 

Which  speak  of  nothing  more  than  what  we  are, 
Would  I  arouse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep 
Of  death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 
To  noble  raptures;  while  my  voice  proclaims 
How  exquisitely  the  individual  mind 
(And  the  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  less 
Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  world 
Is  fitted  ;   and  how  exquisitely,  too, — 
Theme  this  but  little  heard  of  among  men,— 
The  external  world  is  fitted  to  the  mind ; 
And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 
Can  it  be  call'd)  which  they  with  blended  might 
Accomplish  :    This  is  our  high  argument. 

Such  grateful  haunts  foregoing,  if  I  oft 
Must  turn  elsewhere — to  travel  near  the  tribea 
And  fellowships  of  men,  and  see  ill  sights 
Of  madding  passions  mutually  inflamed  ; 
Must  hear  humanity  in  fields  and  groves 
Pipe  solitary  anguish;  or  must  hang 
Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 
Of  sorrow,  barricadoed  evermore 
Within  the  walls  of  cities  ;  may  these  sounds 
Have  their  authentic  comment — that  even  these 
Hearing,  I  be  not  downcast  or  forlorn  ! 
— Descend,  prophetic  spirit!  that  inspires! 
The  human  soul  of  universal  earth, 
Dreaming  on  things  to  come  ;  and  dost  possess 
A  metropolitan  temple  in  the  hearts 
7 


Of  mighty  poets ;  upon  me  bestow 

A  gift  of  genuine  insight;  that  njy  son? 

With  star-like  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine; 

Shedding  benignant  influence — and  secure, 

Itself,  from  all  malevolent  effect 

Of  those  mutations  that  extend  their  sway 

Throughout  the  nether  sphere  ! 

It  was  for  a  long  time  the  custom  to  treat 
WORDSWORTH  with  unmerited  contempt.  His 
faults  were  so  conspicuous  as  to  blind  men 
to  his  merits.  The  fashion  is  changed,  and 
he  is  now  as  much  overpraised.  The  stone 
which  the  builders  rejected,  has  by  a  few 
been  placed  at  the  head  of  the  corner,  but  it 
cannot  remain  there.  He  has  written  poetry 
worthy  of  the  greatest  bards  of  all  the  ages, 
and  as  wretched  verbiage  and  inanity  as  any 
with  which  paper  was  ever  assoiled. 

Mr.  WORDSWORTH  has  been  an  eminently 
happy  man  in  his  circumstances.  Depressed 
by  no  poverty,  worn  out  with  no  over-exer- 
tion, and  successful  in  his  few  efforts  of  a 
private  nature,  nothing  has  disturbed  the 
tranquillity  of  his  life.  He  has  realized  the 
vision  of  literary  ease  and  retirement  which 
has  mocked  the  ambition  of  so  many  men  of 
genius.  All  other  poets  of  high  reputation 
have  passed  considerable  portions  at  least  of 
their  lives  in  the  current  of  society,  but  his  days 
have  been  spent  in  the  beautiful  region  of  his 
home,  and  the  quiet  meditation  of  his  works. 

Few  men  have  been  more  beloved  than  Mr. 
WORDSWORTH  in  private  life,  Among  his  in- 
timate triends  have  been  COLERIDGE,  SOUTIIEY, 
and  many  of  the  other  eminent  men  of  his 
time.  On  the  death  of  SOUTHEY  he  was  ap 
pointed  Poet  Laureate,  and,  at  seventy-five,  he 
promises  to  live  yet  many  years  to  enjoy  his 
fame  and  the  honours  of  his  station. 

The  selections  from  WORDSWORTH  in  this 
volume  are  in  but  few  instances  complete 
poems.  I  have  chosen  rather  to  give  in  de- 
tached passages  some  of  his  most  beautiful 
and  sublime  thoughts,  with  enough  of  the 
characteristic  to  enable  the  reader  to  perceive 
the  peculiarities  of  his  style.  No  one  but 
the  author  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  would  have 
written  "  We  are  Seven." 

A  complete  edition  of  the  works  of  Mr. 
WORDSWORTH  has  been  published  in  Philadel- 
phia, under  the  superintendence  of  Professor 
HENRY  REED,  of  the  University  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, a  gentleman  to  whom  he  owes  much 
of  his  reputation  in  America ;  and  another 
edition  was  published  several  years  ago  in 

New  Haven. 

E 


50 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  SEAT  IN  THE 
GROVES  OF  COLEORTON. 

BENEATH  yon  eastern  ridge,  the  craggy  bound, 
Rugged  and  high,  of  Charnwood's  forest  ground, 
Stand  yet — hut,  stranger!  hidden  from  thy  view — 
The  ivied  ruins  of  forlorn  Grace  Dieu  ; 
Erst  a  religious  house,  which  day  and  night 
With  hymns  resounded,  and  the  chanted  rite : 
And  when  those  rites  had  ceased,  the  spot  gave  birth 
To  honourable  men  of  various  worth: 
There,  on  the  margin  of  a  streamlet  wild, 
Did  Francis  Beaumont  sport,  an  eager  child; 
There,  under  shadow  of  the  neighbouring  rocks, 
Sang  youthful  tales  of  shepherds  and  their  flocks; 
Unconscious  prelude  to  heroic  themes, 
Heart-breaking  tears,  and  melancholy  dreams 
Of  slighted  love,  and  scorn,  and  jealous  rage, 
With  which  his  genius  shook  the  buskin'd  stage. 
Communities  are  lost,  and  empires  die, 
And  things  of  holy  use  unhallow'd  lie ; 
They  perish; — but  the  intellect  can  raise, 
From  airy  words  alone,  a  pile  that  ne'er  decays. 


A  YOUTHFUL  POET  CONTEMPLATING 
NATURE. 

FOR  the  growing  youth, 
What  soul  was  his,  when  from  the  naked  top 
Of  some  bold  headland,  he  beheld  the  sun 
Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light !  He  look'd — 
Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth 
And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 
In  gladness  and  deep  joy.  The  clouds  weretouch'd, 
And  in  their  silent  faces  could  he  read 
Unutterable  love.     Sound  needed  none, 
Nor  any  voice  of  joy  ;  his  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle  :  sensation,  soul,  and  form 
All  melted  into  him;  they  swallowed  up 
His  animal  being :  in  them  did  he  live, 
And  by  them  did  he  live;  they  were  his  life. 
In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  was  not ;  in  enjoyment  it  expired. 
No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  profier'd  no  request; 
Rapt  into  still  communion  that  transcends 
The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise, 
His  mind  was  a  thanksgiving  to  the  Power 
That  made  him  ;  it  was  blessedness  and  love ! 
A  herdsman  on  the  lonely  mountain  top, 
Such  intercourse  was  his,  and  in  this  sort 
Was  his  existence  oftentimes  possessed. 
Oh  then  how  beautiful,  how  bright  appear'd 
The  written  promise !     Early  had  he  learned 
To  reverence  the  volume  that  displays 
The  mystery,  the  life  which  cannot  die; 
But  in  the  mountains  did  he  feel  his  faith. 
All  things,  responsive  to  the  writing,  there 
Breathed  immortality,  revolving  life. 
And  greatness  still  revolving;  infinite; 
There  littleness  was  not;  the  least  of  things 
Seem'd  infinite;  and  then  bis  -pirit  shaped 
Her  prospects,  nor  did  he  believe, — he  saw. 


What  wonder  if  his  being  thus  became 
Sublime  and  comprehensive  !     Low  desires, 
Low  thoughts  had  there  no  place ;  yet  was  his  heart 
Lowly  ;  for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude, 
Oft  as  he  call'd  those  ecstasies  to  mind,       [quired 
And  whence  they  flow'd ;  and. from  them  he  ac- 
Wisdom,  which  works  through  patience;  thence  he 
In  oft  recuiring  hours  of  sober  thought,       [learn'd 
To  look  on  nature  with  an  humble  heart, 
Self-question'd  where  it  did  not  understand, 
And  with  a  superstitious  eye  of  love. 


EVENING  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

HAS  not  the  soul,  the  being  of  your  life, 
Received  a  shock  of  awful  consciousness, 
In  some  calm  season,  when  these  lofty  rocks, 
At  night's  approach,  bring  down  th'  unclouded  sky 
To  rest  upon  their  circumambient  walls; 
A  temple  framing  of  dimensions  vast, 
And  yet  not  too  enormous  for  the  sound 
Of  human  anthems — choral  song,  or  burst 
Sublime  of  instrumental  harmony, 
To  glorify  the  Eternal !    What  if  these 
Did  never  break  the  stillness  that  prevails 
Here,  if  the  solemn  nightingale  be  mute, 
And  the  soft  woodlark  here  did  never  chant 
Her  vespers,  Nature  fails  not  to  provide 
Impulse  and  utterance.     The  whispering  air 
Sends  inspiration  from  the  shadowy  heights, 
And  blind  recesses  of  the  cavern'd  rocks ; 
The  little  rills  and  waters  numberless, 
Inaudible  by  daylight,  blend  their  notes 
With  the  loud  streams :  and  often,  at  the  hour 
When  issue  forth  the  first  pale  stars,  is  heard, 
Within  the  circuit  of  this  fabric  huge, 
One  voice — one  solitary  raven,  flying  - 
Athwart  the  concave  of  the  dark-blue  dome, 
Unseen,  perchance  above  the  power  of  sight — 
An  iron  knell !   With  echoes  from  afar, 
Faint,  and  still  fainter. 


SKATING. 

NOT  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideways,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 
To  cross  the  bright  reflection  of  a  star, 
Image  that,  dying  still  before  me,  gleam'd 
Upon  the  glassy  plain  :  and  oftentimes 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopp'd  short;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheel'd  by  me,  even  as  if  the  earth  had  roll'd, 
With  visible  motion,  her  diurnal  round  ! 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler  and  feebler;  and  I  stood  and  watch'd 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


51 


ON  REVISITING   THE  WYE. 

THESE  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart ; 
And  parsing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration  : — feelings,  too, 
Of  unremembered  pleasure  :  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremember'd  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift 
Of  aspect  more  sublime  ;  that  blesses  most 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world 
Is  lighten'd  : — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on — 
Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul ; 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things.     If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !   how  oft, 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world 
Has  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turn'd  to  thee, 

0  silvan  Wye  !    Thou  wanderer  through  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turn'd  to  thee ! 

And  now  with  gleams  of  half-extinguish'd  thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 
The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again  : 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts, 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.     And  so  I  dare  to  hope,      [first 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when 

1  came  among  these  hills  ;   when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led :  more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 

And  their  glad  varied  moments  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all.     I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion :  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite ;  a  feeling  and  a  love 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrow'd  from  the  eye.     That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 


And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn,  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 

Have  follow'd ;  for  such  loss  I  would  believe 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learn'd 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Not  harsh  nor  grating,  but  of  amplest  power 

To  soften  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  passion  that  disturb'd  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interposed, 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  sun, 

And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  on  the  mind  of  man  : 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  and  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 

And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 

And  what  perceive ;  well-pleased  to  recognise, 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 


CLOUDS  AFTER  A  STORM. 

— A  SINGLE  step  which  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  blind  vapour,  open'd  to  my  view 
Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 
By  waking  sense  or  by  the  dreaming  soul — 
The  appearance  instantaneously  disclosed, 
Was  of  a  mighty  city — boldly  say 
A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self- withdrawn  into  a  wondrous  depth 
Far  sinking  into  splendour — without  end  ! 
Fabric  it  seem'd  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 
With  alabaster  domes  and  silver  spires ; 
And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace  high 
Uplifted  :  here  serene  pavilions  bright 
In  avenues  disposed ;  there  towers  begirt 
With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 
Bore  stars,  illumination  of  all  gems  !    • 
Oh  'twas  an  unimaginable  sight;  [turf, 

Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks,  and  emerald 
Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sky, 
Confused,  commingled,  mutually  inflamed, 
Molten  together,  and  composing  thus, 
Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 
Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 
Fantastic  pornp  of  structure  without  name, 
In  fleecy  folds  voluminous  enwrapp'd. 
Right  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appear'd 
Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a  throne 
Beneath  a  shining  canopy  of  state 
Stood  fix'd ;  and  fix'd  resemblances  were  seen 
To  implements  of  ordinary  use, 
But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified  ; 
Such  as  by  Hebrew  prophets  were  beheld 
In  vision — forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power, 
For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe  ! 


52 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


MAN  NEVER  TO  BE  SCORNED. 

'Tis  nature's  law 

That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 
Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute, 
The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good — a  spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 
A  life  and  soul,  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  link'd.     Then  be  assured 
That  least  of  all  can  aught — that  ever  own'd 
The  heaven-regarding  eye  and  front  sublime 
Which  man  is  born  to — sink,  howe'er  depress'd, 
So  low  as  to  be  scorn'd  without  a  sin ; 
Without  offence  to  God  cast  out  of  view; 
Like  the  dry  remnant  of  a  garden  flower 
Whose  seeds  are  shed,  or  as  an  implement 
Worn  out  and  worthless. 


OBEDIENCE  AND  HUMILITY. 

GT.ORTOUS  is  the  blending 

Of  light  affections  climbing  or  descending 

Along  a  scale  of  light  and  life,  with  cares 

Alternate ;  carrying  holy  thoughts  and  prayers 

Up  to  the  sovereign  seat  of  the  Most  High ; 

Descending  to  the  worm  in  charity  ; 

Like  those  good  angels  whom  a  dream  of  night 

Gave,  in  the  field  of  Luz,  to  Jacob's  sight; 

All,  while  he  slept,  treading  the  pendant  stairs 

"Earthward  or  heavenward,  radiant  messengers, 

That,  with  a  perfect  will  in  one  accord 

Of  strict  obedience,  served  the  Almighty  Lord  ; 

And  with  untired  humility  forbore 

To  speed  their  errand  by  the  wings  they  wore. 


A  DESERTED  WIFE. 

EVERMORE 

Her  eyelids  droop'd,  her  eyes  were  downward  cast, 
And,  when  she  at  her  table  gave  me  food, 
She  did  not  look  at  me  !     Her  voice  was  low, 
Her  body  was  subdued.     In  every  act 
Pertaining  to  her  house  affairs,  appear'd 
The  careless  stillness  of  a  thinking  mind 
Self-occupied  ;  to  which  all  outward  things 
Are  like  an  idle  matter.     Still  she  sigh'd, 
But  yet  no  motion  of  the  breast  was  seen, 
No  heaving  of  the  heart.     While  by  the  fire 
We  sate  together,  sighs  came  on  my  ear, 
I  knew  not  how,  and  hardly  whence  they  came. 

I  return'd, 

And  took  my  rounds  along  ihis  road  again 
Ere  on  its  sunny  bank  the  primrose  flower 
Peep'd  forth,  to  give  an  earnest  of  the  spring. 
I  found  her  sad  and  drooping ;  she  had  learn'd 
No  tidings  of  her  husband  ;  if  he  lived, 
She  knew  not  that  he  lived ;  if  he  were  dead, 
She  knew  not  he  was  dead.    She  seem'd  the  same 
In  person  and  appearance ;  but  her  house 
Bespake  a  sleepy  hand  of  negligence. 

Her  infant  babe 

Had  from  its  mother  caught  the  trick  of  grief, 
And  sigh'd  among  its  playthings ! 


CHATTERTON. 

I  THOUGHT  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  boy, 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perish'd  in  his  pride ; 

Of  him  who  walk'd  in  glory  and  in  joy 
Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain  side ; 
By  our  own  spirits  we  are  deified ; 
We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness, 
But  thereof  come  in  the  end  despondency  and 
madness. 


PICTURE  OF  A  BEGGAR. 

THE  aged  man 

Had  placed  his  staff  across  the  broad,  smooth  stone 
That  overlays  the  pile ;  and  from  a  bag 
All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dames, 
He  drew  his  scraps  and  fragments,  one  by  one, 
And  scann'd  them  with  a  fix'd  and  serious  look 
Of  idle  computation.     In  the  sun, 
Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile, 
Surrounded  by  these  wild,  unpeopled  hills, 
He  s#t,  and  ate  his  food  in  solitude ; 
And  ever,  scatter'd  from  his  palsied  hand, 
That,  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste, 
Was  baffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 
Fell  on  the  ground;  and  the  small  mountain  birds, 
Not  venturing  yet  to  pick  their  destined  meal, 
Approach'd  within  the  length  of  half  his  staff. 


A  LOVER. 

ARABIAN  fiction  never  fill'd  the  world 
With  half  the  wonders  that  were  wrought  for  him. 
Earth  breathed  in  one  great  presence  of  the  spring; 
Life  turn'd  the  meanest  of  her  implements 
Before  his  eyes  to  price  above  all  gold ; 
The  house  she  dwelt  in  was  a  sainted  shrine; 
Her  chamber  window  did  surpass  in  glory 
The  portal  of  the  dawn  ;  all  paradise 
Could,  by  the  simple  opening  of  a  door, 
Let  itself  in  upon  him ;  pathways,  walks, 
Swarm'd  with  enchantment,  till  his  spirit  sank, 
Surcharged,  within  him — overblest  to  move 
Beneath  a  sun  that  walks  a  weary  world 
To  its  dull  round  of  ordinary  cares ; 
A  man  too  happy  for  mortality. 


LONGING  FOR  REUNION  WITH  THE 
DEAD. 

FCM.  oft  the  innocent  sufferer  sees 

Too  clearly ;  feels  too  vividly ;  and  longs 

To  realize  the  vision  with  intense 

And  over-constant  yearning;  there — there  lies 

The  excess  by  which  the  balance  is  destroy'd. 

Too,  too  contracted  are  these  walls  of  flesh, 

This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs, 

Though  inconceivably  endow'd,  too  dim, 

For  any  passion  of  the  soul  that  leads 

To  ecstasy ;  and,  all  the  crooked  paths 

Of  time  and  change  disdaining,  takes  its  course 

Along  the  line  of  limitless  desires. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


53 


A  CHILD  WITH  A  SHELL. 

I  HAVE  seen 

A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  sraooth-lipp'd  shell ; 
To  which,  in  silence  hush'd,  his  very  soul 
Listen'd  intensely  !  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brighten'd  with  joy  ;  for  murmurings  from  within 
Were  heard,  sonorous  cadences  !  whereby, 
To  his  belief,  the  monitor  express'd 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 
Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  faith. 


APOSTROPHE   TO  THE  DEITY. 

THOU,  dread  source 

Prime,  self-existing  cause  and  end  of  all 

That  in  the  scale  of  being  fill  their  place  ; 

Above  our  human  region,  or  below, 

Set  and  sustain'd; — Thou,  who  didst  wrap  the 

cloud 

Of  infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself, 
Therein  with  our  simplicity  a  while 
Might'st  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturb'd  ; 
Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep, 
Or  from  its  deathlike  void,  with  punctual  care, 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Restorest  us,  daily,  to  the  powers  of  sense, 
And  reason's  steadfast  rule — Thou,  Thou  alone 
Art  everlasting,  and  the  bless'd  spirits, 
Which  thou  includest,  as  the  sea  her  waves: 
For  adoration  thou  endurest;  endure 
For  consciousness  the  motions  of  thy  will ; 
For  apprehension  those  transcendent  truths 
Of  the  pure  intellect,  that  stand  as  laws 
(Submission  constituting  strength  and  power) 
Even  to  Thy  Being's  infinite  majesty  ! 
This  universe  shall  pass  away — a  work 
Glorious!  because  the  shadow  of  thy  might, 
A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  thee. 
Ah  !  if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 
No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 
By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 
Loved  haunts  like  these;  the  unimprison'd  mind 
May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own, 
Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her- high  desires. 
If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail, 
Still,  it  may  be  allow'd  me  to  remember 
What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 
In  youth  were  mine  ;  when,  station'd  on  the  top 
Of  some  huge  hill — expectant  I  beheld 
The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  return'd 
Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep  ;  and  bring  the  day 
His  bounteous  gift !  or  saw  him  toward  the  deep 
Sink,  with  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 
Attended  ;  then,  my  spirit  was  entranced 
With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 
The  measure  of  my  soul  was  fill'd  with  bliss, 
And  holiest  love;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 
With  pornp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence  ! 


COMMUNION  WITH  NATURE. 

NATURE  never  did  betray 

The  heart  that  loved  her :  'tis  her  privilege, 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 

From  joy  to  joy  :  for  she  can  so  inform 

The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 

With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 

With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 

Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  nor  disturb 

Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 

Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 

Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 

To  blow  against  thee :  and  in  after  years, 

When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 

Into  a  sober  pleasure ;  when  thy  mind 

Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 

Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies  ;  oh  !  then 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 

Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me, 

And  these  my  exhortations  ! 


FROM  A  POEM  ON  THE  POWER  OF 
SOUND. 

— THE  gift  to  King  Amphion 

That  wall'd  a  city  with  its  melody 
Was  for  belief  no  dream  : — thy  skill,  Arion  ! 

Could  humanize  the  creatures  of  the  sea, 
Where  men  were  monsters.  A  last  grace  he  craves, 

Leave  for  one  chant; — the  dulcet  sound 
Steals  from  the  deck  o'er  willing  waves, 

And  listening  dolphins  gather  round. 
Self-cast,  as  with  a  desperate  course, 

Mid  that  strange  audience,  he  bestrides 
A  proud  one,  docile  as  a  managed  horse ; 

And  singing,  while  the  accordant  hand 
Sweeps  his  harp,  the  master  rides ; 

So  shall  he  touch  at  length  a  friendly  strand, 
And  he,  with  his  preserver,  shine  starrbright 
In  memory,  through  silent  night. 

The  pipe  of  Pan,  to  shepherds 

Couch'd  in  the  shadow  of  Msenalian  pines, 
Was  passing  sweet ;  the  eyeballs  of  the  leopards 

That  in  high  triumph  drew  the  Lord  of  Vines, 
How  did  they  sparkle  to  the  cymbal's  clang! 

While  Fauns  and  Satyrs  beat  the  ground 
In  cadence, — and  Silenus  swang 

This  way  and  that,  with  wild-flowers  crown'd. 
To  life,  to  life  give  back  thine  ear : 

Ye  who  are  longing  to  be  rid 
Of  fable,  though  to  truth  subservient,  hear 

The  little  sprinkling  of  cold  earth  that  fell 
Echoed  from  the  coffin-lid  ; 

The  convict's  summons  in  the  steeple's  knell ; 
"  The  vain  distress-gun"  from  a  leeward  shore 
Repeated — heard  and  heard  no  more ! 


54 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


DION.* 

FAIR  is  the  swan,  whose  majesty,  prevailing 

O'er  breezeless  water,  on  Locano's  lake, 
Bears  him  on,  while  proudly  sailing 

He  leaves  behind  a  moon-illumined  wake: 
Behold  !  the  mantling  spirit  of  reserve 
Fashions  his  neck  into  a  goodly  curve ; 
An  arch  thrown  back  between  luxuriant  wings 

Of  whitest  garniture,  like  fir-tree  boughs, 
To  which,  on  some  unruffled  morning,  clings 

A  flaky  weight  of  winter's  purest  snows  ! 
Behold !  as  with  a  gushing  impulse  heaves 
That  downy  prow,  and  softly  cleaves 
The  mirror  of  the  crystal  flood, 
Vanish  inverted  hill,  and  shadowy  wood, 
And  pendent  rocks,  where'er,  in  gliding  state, 
Winds  the  mute  creature  without  visible  mate 
Or  rival,  save  the  queen  of  night 
Showering  down  a  silver  light, 
From  heaven,  upon  her  chosen  favourite  ! 

So  pure,  so  bright,  so  fitted  to  embrace, 
Where'er  he  turn'd,  a  natural  grace 
Of  haugiitiness  without  pretence, 
And  to  unfold  a  still  magnificence, 
Was  princely  Dion,  in  the  power 
And  beauty  of  his  happier  hour. 

Nor  less  the  homage  that  was  seen  to  wait 
On  Dion's  virtues,  when  the  lunar  beam 

Of  Plato's  genius,  from  its  lofty  sphere, 
Fell  round  him  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 
Softening  their  inbred  dignity  austere  ; 

That  he,  not  too  elate 
With  self-sufficing  solitude, 
But  with  majestic  lowliness  endued, 
Might  in  the  universal  bosom  reign, 
And  from  affectionate  observance  gain 

Help,  under  every  change  of  adverse  fate. 

Five  thousand  warriors — oh,  the  rapturous  day ! 
Each  crown'd  with  flowers,  and  arm'd  with  spear 

and  shield, 
Or  ruder  weapon  which  their  course  might  yield, 

To  Syracuse  advance  in  bright  array. 
Who  leads  them  on  ? — The  anxious  people  see 

Long-exiled  Dion  marching  at  their  head, 
He  also  crown'd  with  flowers  of  Sicily, 

And  in  a  white,  far-beaming  corslet  clad  ! 
Pure  transport,  undisturb'd  by  doubt  or  fear, 

The  gazers  feel ;  and,  rushing  to  the  plain, 

Salute  those  strangers  as  a  holy  train 
Or  blest  procession  (to  the  immortals  dear) 

That  brought  their  precious  liberty  again. 
Lo !  when  the  gates  are  enter'd,  on  each  hand, 

Down  the  long  street,  rich  goblets  fill'd  with  wine 
In  seemly  order  stand, 

On  tables  set,  as  if  for  rites  divine ; — 

And,  as  the  great  deliverer  marches  by, 
He  looks  on  festal  ground  with  fruits  bestrewn ; 
And  flowers  are  on  his  person  thrown 

In  boundless  prodigality; 

Nor  doth  the  general  voice  abstain  from  prayer, 
Invoking  Dion's  tutelary  care, 
As  if  a  very  deity  he  were ! 

*  See  Plutarch. 


Mourn,  hills  and  groves  of  Attica  !  and  mourn 
Illyssus,  bending  o'er  thy  classic  urn  ! 
Mourn,  and  lament  for  him  whose  spirit  dreads 
Youronce sweet  memory, studious walksand shades! 
For  him  who  to  divinity  aspired, 

Not  on  the  breath  of  popular  applause, 

But  through  dependence  on  the  sacred  laws 
Framed  in  the  schools  where  wisdom  dwelt  retired, 
Intent  to  trace  the  ideal  path  of  right 

(More  fair  than  heaven's  broad  causeway  paved 

with  stars) 
Which  Dion  learn'd  to  measure  with  delight ; 

But  he  hath  overleap'd  the  eternal  bars; 
And,  following  guides  whose  craft  holds  no  consent 
With  aught  that  breathes  the  ethereal  element, 
Hath  stain'd  the  robes  of  civil  power  with  blood, 
Unjustly  shed,  though  for  the  public  good. 
Whence  doubts  that  come  too  late,  and  wishes  vain, 
Hollow  excuses,  and  triumphant  pain; 
And  oft  his  cogitations  sink  as- low 

As,  through  the  abysses  of  a  joyless  heart, 
The  heaviest  plummet  of  despair  can  go; 

But  whence  that  sudden  check !  that  fearful  start ! 
He  hears  an  uncouth  sound — 

Anon  his  lifted  eyes 
Saw  at  a  long-drawn  gallery's  dusky  bound 

A  shape  of  more  than  mortal  size 
And  hideous  aspect,  stalking  round  and  round! 
A  woman's  garb  the  phantom  wore, 
And  fiercely  swept  the  marble  floor, — 
Like  Auster  whirling  to  and  fro, 

His  force  on  Caspian  foam  to  try ; 
Or  Boreas  when  he  scours  the  snow 

That  skins  the  plains  of  Thessaly, 
Or  when  aloft  on  Msenalus  he  stops 
His  flight  mid  eddying  pine-tree  tops ! 

So,  but  from  toil  less  sign  of  profit  reaping, 

The  sullen  spectre  to  her  purpose  bow'd, 
Sweeping — vehemently  sweeping — 

No  pause  admitted,  no  design  avow'd ! 
"Avaunt,  inexplicable  guest! — avaunt!" 

Exclaim'd  the  chieftain, — "Let  me  rather  see 
The  coronal  that  coiling  vipers  make  ; 
The  torch  that  flames  with  many  a  lurid  flake, 

And  the  long  train  of  doleful  pageantry 
Which  they  behold,  whom  vengeful  furies  haunt; 

Who,  while  they  struggle  from  the  scourge  to  flee, 
Move  where  the  blasted  soil  is  not  unworn, 
And,  in  their  anguish,  bear  what  other  minds  have 
borne  ! 

But  shapes  that  come  not  at  an  earthly  call, 

Will  not  depart  when  mortal  voices  bid ; 

Lords  of  the  visionary  eye,  whose  lid 
Once  raised,  remains  aghast,  and  will  not  fall ! 
Ye  gods,  thought  he,  that  servile  implement 
Obeys  a  mystical  intent ! 
Your  minister  would  brush  away 

The  spots  that  to  my  soul  adhere ; 
But  should  she  labour  night  and  day, 

They  will  not,  cannot  disappear; 
Whence  angry  perturbations. — and  that  look 
Which  no  philosophy  can  brook  ! 

Ill-fated  chief!  there  are  whose  hopes  are  built 
Upon  the  ruins  of  thy  glorious  name ; 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


55 


Who,  through  the  portal  of  one  moment's  guilt, 

Pursue  thee  with  their  deadly  aim  ! 
Oh,  matchless  perfidy  !  portentous  lust 

Of  monstrous  crime  ! — that  horror-striking  blade, 

Drawn  in  defiance  of  the  gods,  hath  laid 
The  noble  Syracusan  low  in  dust ! 

Shudder'd  the  walls, — the  marble  city  wept, — 
And  sylvan  places  heaved  a  pensive  sigh; 

But  in  calm  peace  the  appointed  victim  slept, 
As  he  had  fallen,  in  magnanimity: 

Of  spirit  too  capacious  to  require 
That  Destiny  her  course  should  change;  too  just 

To  his  own  native  greatness,  to  desire 
That  wretched  boon,  days  lengthen'd  by  mistrust. 
So  were  the  hopeless  troubles,  that  involved 
The  soul  of  Dion,  instantly  dissolved. 
Released  from  life  and  cares  of  princely  state, 
He  left  this  moral  grafted  on  his  fate, — 
"  Him  only  pleasure  leads,  and  peace  attends 
Him,  only  him,  the  shield  of  Jove  defends, 
Whose  means  are  fair  and  spotless  as  his  ends." 


CHARACTER   OF   THE    HAPPY 
WARRIOR. 

WHO  is  the  happy  warrior  1     Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 
— It  is  the  generous  spirit  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  childish  thought : 
Whose  high  endeavours  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care; 
Who,  doom'd  to  go  in  company  with  pain, 
And  fear,  and  bloodshed,  miserable  train! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives; 
By  objects,  which  might  force  her  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  render'd  more  compassionate  ; 
Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice ; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure, 
As  tempted  more ;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress; 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 
— 'T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason  ;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends ; 
Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, 
And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
He  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows  : 
— Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Rises  by  open  means ;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honourable  terms,  or  else  retire 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 


Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 

Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim ; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 

For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state  ; 

Whom  they  must  follow ;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 

Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 

Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace; 

But  who,  if  he  be  call'd  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  join'd 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad,  for  human  kind, 

Is  happy  as  a  lover;  and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  inspired ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 

In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 

— He  who  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 

And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence,          • 

Is  yet  a  soul  whose  master-bias  leans 

To  home-felt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes ; 

Sweet  images !  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 

Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 

It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve ; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love: — 

'T  is,  finally,  the  man  who,  lifted  high, 

Conspicuous  object  in  a  nation's  eye, 

Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 

Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 

Prosperous -or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 

Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won; 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  ; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 

Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 

From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth 

For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 

Or  he  must  go  to  dust  without  his  fame, 

And  leave  a  dead,  unprofitable  name, 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause ; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 

His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause 

This  is  the  happy  warrior;  this  is  he 

Whom  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 


THE  POWER  OF  VIRTUE. 

ALT.  true  glory  rests, 
All  praise  of  safety,  and  all  happiness, 
Upon  the  moral  law.     Egyptian  Thebes  ; 
Tyre  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  waves  ; 
Palmyra,  central  in  the  desert,  fell ! 
And  the  arts  died  by  which  they  had  been  raised. 
— Call  Archimedes  from  his  buried  tomb 
Upon  the  plain  of  vanish'd  Syracuse, 
And  feelingly  the  sage  shall  make  report 
How  insecure,  how  baseless  in  itself 
Is  that  philosophy,  whose  sway  is  framed 
For  mere  material  instruments: — How  weak 
Those  arts,  and  high  inventions,  if  unpropp'd 
By  virtue." 


56 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY, 
FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EAR- 
LY  CHILDHOOD. 

"The  child  is  father  of  the  man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  he 
Bound  each  to  each  hy  natural  piety." 

THERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  spring, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparell'd  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 

The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 
The  rainbow  come  and  goes, 
And  lovely  is  the  rose ; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare : 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth, — 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  pass'd  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong ; 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep ; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
A  nd  all  the  world  is  gay  : 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

Arid  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ; — 

Thou  child  of  joy. 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 

Shepherd-boy  ! 
Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  made  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss— I  feel— I  feel  it  all. 
Oh,  evil  day  !   if  I  were  sullen, 
While  earth  herself  is  adorning 
This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  culling 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 

Fresh  flowers  ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm : — 

I  hear,  I  hear — with  joy  I  hear  ! 

But  there  's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone  : 

The  pansy  at  my  f'crt. 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 


Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream ! 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  : 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar ; 

Not  in  entire  forgetful  ness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  ; 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy  ; 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  : 
The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own ; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 

And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 
And  no  unworthy  aim, 
The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses, — 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand,  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly  learned  art : 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song  : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part, — 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  'humorous  stage' 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity  ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind  ; — 

Mighty  prophet !     Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest. 
Whifh  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 


WILLIAM    W  O  K  D  S  W  O  R  T  H. 


57 


Broods  like  the  day, — a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by  ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  b'ring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  darthly  freight 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast: 

Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise, 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised : 

But  for  those  first  affbctions, 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence:  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,    nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  birds  !  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng; 

Ye  that  pipe,  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 
We  will  grieve  not, — rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be ; 


In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering  ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, — 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 
And  O,  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight, 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  brooks,  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  : 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, — 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


EVENING  BY  THE  THAMES. 

How  richly  glows  the  water's  breast 

Before  us,  tinged  with  evening  hues, 
While,  facing  thus  the  crimson  west, 

The  boat  her  silent  course  pursues  !- 
And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream  ! 

A  little  moment  past  so  smiling ! 
And  still,  perchance,  with  faithless  gleam, 

Some  other  loiterer  beguiling. 

Such  views  the  youthful  bard  allure ; 

But,  heedless  of  the  following  gloom, 
He  deems  their  colours  shall  endure 

Till  peace  go  with  him  to  the  tomb. 
And  let  him  nurse  his  fond  deceit, 

And  what  if  he  must  die  in  sorrow  ! 
Who  would  not  cherish  dreams  so  sweet, 

Though  grief  and  pain  may  come  to-morrow? 

Glide  gently  thus,  for  ever  glide, 

O  Thames  !  that  other  bards  may  see 
As  lovely  visions  by  thy  side 

As  now,  fair  river !  come  to  me. 
O  glide,  fair  stream  !  for  ever  so, 

Thy  quiet  soul  on  all  bestowing, 
Till  all  our  minds  for  ever  flow, 

As  thy  deep  waters  now  are  flowing. 

Vain  thought ! — Yet  be  as  now  thou  art, 

That  in  thy  waters  may  be  seen 
The  image  of  a  poet's  heart, 

How  bright,  how  solemn,  how  serene  ! 
Such  as  did  once  the  poet  bless, 

Who,  murmuring  here  a  later*  ditty, 
Could  find  no  refuge  from  distress 

But  in  the  milder  grief  of  pity. 

*  Coiliiis's  Ode  on  the  Dieath  of  THOMSON,  the  last 
written  of  the  poems  which  were  published  during  his 
lifetime. 


58 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


SCORN  NOT  THE  SONNET. 

SCORN  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic,  you  have  frown'd, 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours  ;  with  this  key 
Shakspeare  unlock'd  his  heart ;  the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound ; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound  ; 
With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 
The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle-leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crown'd 
His  visionary  brow  ;  a  glow-worm  lamp, 
It  cheer'd  mild  Spenser,  call'd  from  faery  land 
To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;  and  when  a  damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  thing  hecame  a  trumpet,  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains, — alas,  too  few. 

GREAT  MEN. 

GHKAT  men  have  been  among  us ;  hands  that  penn'd 
And  tongues  that  utter'd  wisdom — better  none; 
The  latter  Sydney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 
Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  Milton  friend. 
These  moralists  could  act  and  comprehend  : 
They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on  ; 
Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone      [bend 
In  splendour ;  what  strength  was,  that  would  not 
B  ut  in  magnanimous  meek  ness.  France,  'tis  strange, 
Hath  brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we  had  then. 
Perpetual  emptiness  !  unceasing  change  ! 
No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 
No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road ; 
But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men  ! 

MILTON. 

MILTON  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  ; 
England  hath  need  of  thee;  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  ;  altars,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men; 
Oh !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea: 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens — majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

ToiTSSAimr,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillow'd  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den ; — 
O  miserable  chieftain  !  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  1     Yet  die  not ;  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow, 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;  air,  earth,  and  skies ; 
There 's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee  ;  thou  hast  great  allies  ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 


THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US. 

THK  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers; 
Little  we  see  in  nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

A  NATION'S  POWER  NOT  IN  ARMIES. 

THE  power  of  armies  is  a  visible  thing 
Formal  and  circumscribed  in  time  and  space; 
But  who  the  limits  of  that  power  shall  trace, 
Which  a  brave  people  into  light  can  bring 
Or  hide  at  will, — for  freedom  combating 
By  just  revenge  inflamed  ]  No  foot  may  chase, 
No  eye  can  follow,  to  a  fatal  place 
That  power,  that  spirit,  whether  on  the  wing 
Like  the  strong  wind,  or  sleeping  like  the  wind 
Within  its  awful  caves.     From  year  to  year 
Springs  this  indigenous  produce  far  and  near  ; 
No  craft  this  subtle  element  can  bind, 
Rising  like  water  from  the  soil,  to  find 
la  every  nook  a  lip  that  it  may  cheer. 

A   VISION. 

1^  my  mind's  eye  a  Temple,  like  a  cloud 
Slowly  surmounting  some  invidious  hill, 
Rose  out  of  darkness  :  the  bright  Work  stood  still ; 
And  might  of  its  own  beauty  have  been  proud, 
But  it  was  fashion'd  and  to  God  was  vow'd 
By  virtues  that  diffused,  in  every  part, 
Spirit  divine  through  forms  of  human  art:    [loud, 
Faith  had  her  arch — her  arch,  when  winds  blew 
Into  the  consciousness  of  safety  thrill'd ; 
And  Love  her  towers  of  dread  foundation  laid 
Under  the  grave  of  things  ;  Hope  had  her  spire 
Star-high,  and  pointing  still  to  something  higher; 
Trembling  I  gazed,  but  heard  a  voice — it  said, 
"Hell-gates  are  powerless  phantoms  when  unbuild." 

CHILDHOOD. 

Am  sleeps — from  strife  or  stir  the  clouds  are  free  ; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  nun. 

Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  brood's  o'er  the  sea : 

But  list !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  child  !  dear  happy  girl !  if  thou  appear 

Heedless — untouch'd  with  awe  or  serious  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine  : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year ; 

And  worshippest  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH, 


59 


ELEGIAC    STANZAS.* 

LULLED  by  the  sound  of  pastoral  bells, 
Rude  nature's  pilgrims  did  we  go, 
From  the  dread  summit  of  the  Queen^ 
Of  mountains,  through  a  deep  ravine, 
Where,  in  her  holy  chapel,  dwells 
"Our  Lady  of  the  Snow." 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  air  was  mild  ; 

Free  were  the  streams  and  green  the  bowers  ; 

As  if,  to  rough  assaults  unknown, 

The  genial  spot  had  ever  shown 

A  countenance  that  as  sweetly  smiled — 

The  face  of  summer  hours. 

And  we  were  gay,  our  hearts  at  ease ; 
With  pleasure  dancing  through  the  frame 
We  journeyed  ;  all  we  knew  of  care — 
Our  path  that  straggled  here  and  there  ; 
Of  trouble — but  the  fluttering  breeze  ; 
Of  winter — but  a  name. 

If  foresight  could  have  rent  the  veil 
Of  three  short  days — but  hush — no  more  ! 
Calm  is  the  grave,  and  calmer  none 
Than  that  to  which  thy  cares  are  gone, 
Thou  victim  of  the  stormy  gale  ; 
Asleep  on  Zurich's  shore  ! 

Oh  Goddard  !  what  art  thouT — a  name — 
A  sunbeam  followed  by  a  shade ! 

*  The  lamented  youth  whose  untimely  death  gave 
occasion  to  these  elegiac  verses,  was  Frederick  William 
GodJard,  from  Boston  in  North  America.  He  was  in  his 
twentieth  year,  and  Ind  resided  for  some  time  with  a 
clereyirnn  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Geneva  for  the  com- 
pletion of  his  education.  Accompanied  by  a  fellow-pupil, 
a  native  of  Scotland,  he  had  just  set  out  on  a  Swiss  tour, 
when  it  was  his  misfortune  to  fall  in  with  a  friend  of 
mine  who  was  hastening  to  join  our  party.  The  travel- 
lers, after  spending  a  day  together  on  the  road  from 
Berne  and  at  Soleure,  took  leave  of  each  other  at  night, 
the  young  men  having  intended  to  proceed  directly  to 
Zurich.  But  early  in  the  morning  my  friend  found  his 
new  acquaintances,  who  were  informed  of  the  object  of 
his  journey,  and  the  friends  he  was  in  pursuit  of,  equip- 
ped to  accompany  him.  We  met  at  Lucerne  the  suc- 
ceeding evening,  and  Mr.  G.  and  his  fellow-student  be- 
came in  consequence  our  travelling-companions  for  a 
couple  of  days.  We  ascended  the  Righi  together;  and, 
after  contemplating  the  sunrise  from  that  noble  moun- 
tain, we  separated  at  an  hour  and  on  a  spot  well  suited 
to  the  parting  of  those  who  were  to  meet  no  more.  Our 
party  descended  through  the  valley  of  our  Lady  of  the 
Snow,  and  our  late  companions,  to  Art.  We  had  hoped 
to  meet  in  a  few  weeks  at  Geneva ;  but  on  the  third 
succeeding  day  (the  21st  of  August)  Mr.  Goddard  pe- 
rished, being  overset  in  a  boat  while  crossing  the  lake  of 
Zurich.  His  companion  saved  himself  by  swimming, 
and  was  hospitably  received  in  the  mansion  of  a  Swiss 
gentleman  (M.  Keller)  situated  on  the  eastern  coast  of 
the  lake.  The  corpse  of  poor  Goddard  was  cast  ashore 
on  the  estate  of  the  same  gentleman,  who  generously 
performed  all  the  rites  of  hospitality  which  could  be 
rendered  to  the  dead  as  well  as  to  the  living.  He  caused 
a  handsome  mural  monument  to  be  erected  in  the  church 
of  Kusuacht,  which  records  the  premature  fate  of  the 
young  American,  and  on  the  shores  too  of  the  lake  the 
travt-ller  may  read  an  inscription  pointing  out  the  spot 
where  the  body  was  deposited  by  the  waves. 
t  Mount  Righi— Regina  Montium. 


Nor  more,  for  aught  that  time  supplies, 
The  great,  the  experienced,  and  the  wise : 
Too  much  from  this  frail  earth  we  claim, 
Arid  therefore  are  betrayed. 

We  met,  while  festive  mirth  ran  wild, 
Where,  from  a  deep  lake's  mighty  urn, 
Forth  slips,  like  an  enfranchised  slave, 
A  sea-green  river,  proud  to  lave, 
With  current  swift  and  undefiled, 
The  towers  of  old  Lucerne. 

We  parted  upon  solemn  ground 
Far-lifted  towards  the  unfading  sky; 
But  all  our  thoughts  were  then  of  earth, 
That  gives  to  common  pleasures  birth ; 
And  nothing  in  our  hearts  we  found 
That  prompted  even  a  sigh. 

Fetch,  sympathizing  powers  of  air, 
Fetch,  ye  that  post  o'er  seas  and  lands, 
Herbs  moistened  by  Virginian  dew, 
A  most  untimely  grave  to  strew, 
Whose  turf  may  never  know  the  care 
Of  kindred  human  hands  ! 

Beloved  by  every  gentle  muse, 

He  left  his  transatlantic  home  : 

Europe,  a  realized  romance, 

Had  opened  on  his  eager  glance ; 

What  present  bliss  ! — what  golden  views  ! 

What  stores  for  years  to  come  ! 

Though  lodged  within  no  vigorous  frame, 
His  soul  her  daily  tasks  renewed, 
Blithe  as  the  lark  on  sun-gilt  wings 
High  poised — or  as  the  wren  that  sings 
In  shady  places,  to  proclaim 
Her  modest  gratitude. 

Not  vain  is  sadly  uttered  praise ; 
The  words  of  truth's  memorial  vow 
Are  sweet  as  morning  fragrance  shed 
From  flowers  'mid  Goldau's  ruins  bred ; 
As  evening's  fondly  lingering  rays 
On  Righi's  silent  brow. 

Lamented  youth !  to  thy  cold  clay 
Fit  obsequies  the  stranger  paid  ; 
And  piety  shall  guard  the  stone 
Which  hath  not  left  the  spot  unknown 
Where  the  wild  waves  resigned  their  prey — 
And  that  which  marks  thy  bed. 

And,  when  thy  mother  weeps  for  thee, 
Lost  youth  !  a  solitary  mother  ; 
This  tribute  from  a  casual  friend 
A  not  unwelcome  aid  may  lend, 
To  feed  the  tender  luxury, 
The  rising  pang  to  smother.* 

*  The  persuasion  here  expressed  was  not  groundless. 
The  first  human  consolation  that  the  afflicted  mother 
felt,  was  derived  from  this  tribute  to  her  son's  memory, 
a  fact  which  the  author  learned,  at  his  own  residence, 
from  her  daughter,  who  visited  Europe  some  years  af- 
terwards.— Goldau  is  one  of  the  villages  desolated  by  the 
fall  of  part  of  the  Mountain  Rossberg. 


60 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


PRESENTIMENTS. 

PRESEXTIXENTS  !  they  judge  not  right 
Who  deem  that  ye  from  open  light 

Retire  in  fear  of  shame  ; 
All  heaven-born  instincts  shun  the  touch 
Of  vulgar  sense, — and,  being  such, 

Such  privilege  ye  claim. 

The  tear  whose  source  I  could  not  guess, 
The  deep  sigh  that  seemed  fatherless, 

Were  mine  in  early  days ; 
And  now,  unforced  by  time  to  part 
With  fancy,  I  obey  my  heart, 

And  venture  on  your  praise. 

What  though  some  busy  foes  to  good, 
Too  potent  over  nerve  and  blood, 

Lurk  near  you — and  combine 
To  taint  the  health  which  ye  infuse ; 
This  hides  not  from  the  moral  muse 

Your  origin  divine. 

How  oft  from  you,  derided  powers  ! 
Comes  faith  that  in  auspicious  hours 

Builds  castles,  not  of  air ; 
Bodings  unsanctioned  by  the  will 
Flow  from  your  visionary  skill, 

And  teach  us  to  beware. 

The  bosom-weight,  your  stubborn  gift, 
That  no  philosophy  can  lift, 

Shall  vanish,  if  ye  please, 
Like  morning  mist;  and,  where  it  lay, 
The  spirits  at  your  bidding  play 

In  gaycty  and  ease. 

Star-guided  contemplations  mpve 

Through  space,  though  calm,  not  raised  above 

Prognostics  that  ye  rule  ; 
The  naked  Indian  of  the  wild, 
And  haply,  too,  the  cradled  child, 

Are  pupils  of  your  school. 

But  who  can  fathom  your  intents, 
Number  their  signs  or  instruments  ] 

A  rainbow,  a  sunbeam, 
A  subtle  smelt  that  spring  unbinds, 
Dead  pause  abrupt  of  midnight  winds, 

An  echo,  or  a  dream. 

The  laughter  of  the  Christmas  hearth, 
With  sighs  of  self-exhausted  mirth, 

Ye  feelingly  reprove ; 
And  daily,  in  the  conscious  breast, 
Your  visitations  are  a  test 

And  exercise  of  love. 

When  some  great  change  gives  boundless  scope 
To  an  exulting  nation's  hope, 

Oft,  startled  and  made  wise 
By  your  low-breathed  interpretings, 
The  simply-meek  foretaste  the  springs 

Of  bitter  contraries. 

Ye  daunt  the  proud  array  of  war, 
Pervade  the  lonely  ocean  far 
As  sail  hath  been  unfurl'd ; 


For  dancers  in  the  festive  hall 
What  ghastly  partners  hath  your  call 
Fetched  from  the  shadowy  world  ! 

'Tis  said,  that  warnings  ye  dispense, 
Embolderi'd  by  a  keener  sense ; 

That  men  have  lived  for  whom, 
With  dread  precision,  ye  made  clear 
The  hour  that  in  a  distant  year 

Should  knell  them  to  the  tomb. 

Unwelcome  insight !     Yet  there  are 
Blest  times  when  mystery  is  laid  bare, 

Truth  shows  a  glorious  face, 
While  on  that  isthmus  which  commands 
The  councils  of  both  worlds,  she  stands, 

Sage  spirits  !  by  your  grace. 

God,  who  instructs  the  brutes  to  scent 
All  changes  of  the  element, 

Whose  wisdom  fix'd  the  scale 
Of  natures,  for  our  wants  provides 
By  higher,  sometimes  humbler  guides, 

When  lights  of  reason  fail. 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

Iv  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went, 
From  hill  to  hill,  in  discontent 
Of  pleasure  high  and  turbulent, 

Most  pleased  when  most  uneasy  ; 
But  now  my  own  delights  I  make, — 
My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake, 
And  nature's  love  of  thee  partake, 

Her  much-loved  daisy  ! 

Thee  winter  in  the  garland  wears 
That  thinly  decks  his  few  gray  hairs ; 
Spring  parts  the  clouds  with  softest  airs, 

That  she  may  sun  thee  ; 
Whole  summer  fields  are  thine  by  right; 
And  autumn,  melancholy  wight! 
Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 

When  rains  are  on  thee. 

In  shoals  and  bands,  a  morrice  train, 
Thou  greet'st  the  traveller  in  the  lane  ; 
Pleased  at  his  greeting  thee  again ; 

Yet  nothing  daunted 
Nor  grieved  if  thou  be  set  at  nought: 
And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee,  like  a  pleasant  thought, 

When  such  are  wanted. 

Be  violets  in  their  secret  mews 

The  flowers  the  wanton  zephyrs  choose  ; 

Proud  be  the  rose,  with  rains  and  dews 

Her  head  impearling ; 
Thou  liv'st  with  less  ambitious  aim, 
Yet  hast  not  gone  without  thy  fame  ; 
Thou  art  indeed  by  many  a  claim 

The  poet's  darling. 

If  to  a  rock  from  rains  he  fly, 
Or,  some  bright  day  of  April  sky, 
Imprisoned  by  hot  sunshine,  lie 

Near  the  green  holly, 
And  wearily  at  length  should  fare  ; 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


61 


He  needs  but  look  about,  and  there 
Thou  art! — a  friend  at  hand,  to  scare 
His  melancholy. 

A  hundred  times,  by  rock  or  bower, 
Ere  thus  I  have  lain  couched  an  hour, 
Have  I  derived  from  thy  sweet  power 

Some  apprehension ; 
Some  steady  love;  some  brief  delight ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight; 
Some  chime  of  fancy  wrong  or  right ; 

Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 

And  one  chance  look  to  thee  should  turn, 

I  drink  out  of  an  humbler  urn, 

A  lowlier  pleasure; 
The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life  our  nature  breeds; 
A  wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 

Of  hearts  at  leisure. 

Fresh-smitten  by  the  morning  ray, 
When  thou  art  up,  alert  and  gay, 
Then,  cheerful  flower!  my  spirits  play 

With  kindred  gladness : 
And  when,  at  dusk,  by  dews  opprest, 
Thou  sink'st,  the  image  of  thy  rest 
Hath  often  eased  my  pensive  breast 

Of  careful  sadness. 

And  all  day  long  I  number  yet, 
All  seasons  through,  another  debt, 
Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met, 

To  thee  am  owing ; 
An  instant  call  it,  a  blind  sense ; 
A  happy,  genial  influence, 
Coming  one  knows  not  how,  nor  whence, 

Nor  whither  going. 

Child  of  the  year  !  that  round  dost  run 
Thy  pleasant  course, — when  day's  begun, 
As  ready  to  salute  the  sun 

As  lark  or  leveret, 

Thy  long-lost  praise  thou  shalt  regain ; 
Nor  be  less  dear  to  future  men 
Than  in  old  time  ; — thou  not  in  vain 

Art  nature's  favourite. 


SHE  DWELT  AMONG  THE  UNTROD- 
DEN  WAYS. 

SHE  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  way 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid,  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  bv  a  mossy  stone 

Half  bidden  from  the  eye  ! 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown — and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 


daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  ! 
O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 
And  calra'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 

Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 

Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot  ; 
Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not  ; 
Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power  !  around 
them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 
Yet  find  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried  ; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferr'd 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control  ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  uncharter'd  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 

The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  any  thing  so  fair 

As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds  ; 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are 
fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 

I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give  ;  • 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let  me  live! 
F 


62 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 

A  SIMPLE  child, 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 

What  should  it  know  of  death] 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said ; 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  : 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair , 

— Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ?" 
"  How  many  1     Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"  And  who  are  they  ]     I  pray  you,  tell." 
She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  ; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 
And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

"Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother; 
And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven  ! — I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"You  run  about,  my  little  maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied, 
"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit, 

And  sing  a  song  to  them. 

"And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane  : 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain  ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 


"  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid ; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

«  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 

"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven  T' 
Quick  was  the  little  maid's  reply, 

"  O  master  !  we  are  seven." 

"But  they  are  dead  ;  those  two  are  dead  ! 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  !" 
'T  was  throwing  words  away  :  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  !" 


AN  INCIDENT  AT  BRUGES. 

I?f  Bruges  town  is  many  a  street 

Whence  busy  life  hath  fled  ; 
Where,  without  hurry,  noiseless  feet 

The  grass-grown  pavement  tread. 
There  heard  we,  halting  in  the  shade 

Flung  from  a  convent-tower, 
A  harp  that  tuneful  prelude  made 

To  a  voice  of  thrilling  power. 

The  measure,  simple  truth  to  tell, 

Was  fit  for  some  gay  throng; 
Though  from  the  same  grim  turret  feM 

The  shadow  and  the  song. 
When  silent  were  both  voice  and  chords, 

The  strain  seemed  doubly  dear, 
Yet  sad  as  sweet, — for  English  words 

Had  fallen  upon  the  ear. 

It  was  a  breezy  hour  of  eve ; 

And  pinnacle  and  spire 
Quivered  and  seemed  almost  to  heave, 

Clothed  with  innocuous  fire  ; 
But,  where  we  stood,  the  setting  sun 

Showed  little  of  his  state  : 
And,  if  the  glory  reached  the  nun, 

'Twas  through  an  iron  grate. 

Not  always  is  the  heart  unwise, 

Nor  pity  idly  born, 
If  even  a  passing  stranger  sighs 

For  them  who  do  not  mourn. 
Sad  is  thy  doom,  self-solaced  dove, 

Captive,  whoe'er  thou  be  1 
Oh !  what  is  beauty,  what  is  love, 

And  opening  life  to  thee  ] 

Such  feeling  pressed  upon  my  soul, 

A  feeling  sanctified 
By  one  soft  trickling  tear  that  stole 

From  the  maiden  at  my  side ; 
Less  tribute  could  she  pay  than  this, 

Borne  gayly  o'er  the  sea, 
Fresh  from  the  beauty  and  the  bliss 

Of  English  liberty  ? 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


63 


THE  SOLITARY  REAPER. 

BEHOLD  her,  single  in  the  field, 

Yon  solitary  Highland  lass  ! 

Reaping  and  singing  by  herself, 

Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  'he  grain, 
And  sings  e  melancholy  strain  ; 
Oh  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chant 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 

Among  Arabian  sands : 
Such  thrilling  voice  was  never  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird,' 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago  : 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day  1 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending. 
I  listen'd,  motionless  and  still ; 
And  when  I  mounted  up  the  .hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


AUTUMN. 

THE  sylvan  slopes  with  corn-clad  fields 
Are  hung,  as  if  with  golden  shields, 

Bright  trophies  of  the  sun  ! 
Like  a  fair  sister  of  the  sky, 
Unruffled  doth  the  blue  lake  lie, 

The  mountains  looking  on. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  yon  vocal  grove. 
Albeit  uninspired  by  love, 

By  love  untaught  to  ring, 
May  well  afford  to  mortal  ear 
An  impulse  more  profoundly  dear 

Than  music  of  the  spring. 

For  that  from  turbulence  and  heat 
Proceeds,  from  some  uneasy  seat 

In  nature's  struggling  frame, 
Some  region  of  impatient  life: 
And  jealousy,  and  quivering  strife, 

Therein  a  portion  claim. 

This,  this  is  holy ;  while  I  hear 
These  vespers  of  another  year, 

This  hymn  of  thanks  and  praise, 
My  spirit  seems  to  mount  above 
The  anxieties  of  human  love, 

And  earth's  precarious  days. 


But  list ! — though  winter  storms  be  nigh, 
Uncheck'd  is  that  soft  harmony  : 

There  lives  Who  can  provide 
For  all  his  creatures ;  and  in  Him, 
Even  like  the  radiant  seraphim, 

These  choristers  confide. 


SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT. 

SHE  was  a  phantom  of  delight, 
When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  plann'd, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


A  MOUNTAIN  SOLITUDE. 

IT  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 

That  keeps  till  June  December's  snow ; 
A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarn  below  ! 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 
Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 
Pathway,  or  cultivated  land, 

From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

% 

There  sometimes  does  a  leaping  fish 

Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer- 
The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak 

In  symphony  austere ; 
Thither  the  rainbow  comes,  the  cloud ; 
And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud, 
And  sun-brains  ;  arid  the  sounding  blast, 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past, 
But  that  enormous  barrier  binds  it  fast. 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT. 


WALTER  SCOTT  was  born  in  Edinburgh  on 
the  fifteenth  of  August,  1771.  "My  birth," 
says  he,  "  was  neither  distinguished  nor  sor- 
did ;  according  to  the  prejudices  of  my  coun- 
try it  was  esteemed  gentle,  as  I  was  con- 
nected, though  remotely,  with  ancient  fami- 
lies, both  by  my  father's  and  mother's  side." 
Delicacy  of  constitution,  attended  by  a  lame- 
ness which  proved  permanent,  was  apparent 
in  his  infancy,  and  induced  his  removal  to  the 
rural  residence  of  his  grandfather,  near  the 
Tweed,  where  he  remained  until  about  the 
eighth  year  of  his  age.  In  the  introduction 
to  the  third  canto  of  Marmion  he  has  graphi- 
cally described  the  scenery  by  which  he  was 
surrounded,  his  interest  in  its  ruins  and  his 
sympathy  with  its  grandeur  and  beauty.  The 
romantic  ballads  and  legends  to  which  he 
listened  here  were  treasured  in  his  memory, 
and  had  a  powerful  influence  upon  his  future 
character.  From  1779  to  1783  he  was  in  the 
high  school  of  Edinburgh.  He  tells  us,  allud- 
ing to  this  period,  that  he  had  a  reputation  as 
a  tale-teller,  and  that  the  applause  of  his  com- 
panions was.  a  recompense  for  the  disgraces 
and  punishments  he  incurred  by  being  idle 
himself  and  keeping  others  idle  during  hours 
which  should  have  been  devoted  to  study. 
In  1783  he  became  a  student  in  the  university, 
but  his  education  proceeded  unprosperously. 
He  had  no  inclination  for  science,  and  was  a 
careless  learner  of  the  languages,  though  he 
acquired  the  French,  Italian,  and  Spanish,  so 
as  to  read  them  with  sufficient  ease. 

In  1786  he  entered  the  law  office  of  his 
father,  and  in  1792,  being  then  nearly  twenty- 
one  years  of  age,  he  was  called  to  the  bar. 
He  paid  little  attention  to  his  profession,  but 
was  an  industrious  reader  of  romantic  lite- 
rature, in  his  own  and  foreign  languages, 
especially  in  the  German,  with  which  he  had 
recently  become  familiar.  The  position  of  his 
family,  and  his  own  cheerful  temper  and  fine 
colloquial  abilities,  procured  him  admission  to 
the  best  society  of  the  city,  and  led  to  his 
acquaintance  with  a  young  lady  by  whose  mar- 
riage long  and  fondly-cherished  hopes  were 
disappointed.  Her  image  was  for  ever  in  his 


memory,  and  inspired  some  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful passages  in  his  poetry.  In  1797,  however, 
he  became  acquainted  with  Miss  CHARPENTIER, 
the  daughter  of  a  French  refugee,  to  whom,  in 
the  autumn  of  that  year,  he  was  married. 

Previous  to  this  time  M.  G.  LEWIS  had 
acquired  considerable  reputation  by  his  imita- 
tions of  the  German  ballads;  and  conceiving 
that  if  inferior  to  him  in  poetical  powers,  he 
was  his  superior  in  general  information,  SCOTT 
had  undertaken  to  become  his  rival.  His  ear- 
liest efforts,  translations  of  BURGER'S  Leonore 
and  Wild  Huntsman,  were  published  in  1796, 
and  two  years  afterward  appeared  in  London 
his  version  of  GOETHE'S  Goetz  von  Berlichin- 
gen.  Each  of  these  volumes  was  favourably 
reviewed,  but  coldly  received  by  the  public. 

Soon  after  his  marriage  SCOTT  had  taken  a 
pleasant  house  on  the  bnnks  of  the  Tweed, 
about  thirty  miles  from  Edinburgh.  By  the 
death  of  his  father  he  had  come  into  posses- 
sion of  a  considerable  income;  his  wife  had 
an  annuity  of  four  hundred  pounds;  and  the 
office  of  sheriff  of  Selkirkshire,  which  imposed 
very  little  duty,  now  produced  him  some  three 
hundred  more.  At  twenty-eight  years  of  age 
few  men  were  more  happily  situated,  but  he 
had  as  yet  done  scarcely  any  thing  toward 
founding  a  reputation  as  a  man  of  letters. 

His  leisure  hours  were  for  several  years 
devoted  to  the  preparation  of  The  Minstrelsy 
of  the  Scottish  Border,  the  third  and  last 
volume  of  which  appeared  in  1803.  This 
work  gave  him  at  once  an  enviable  position. 
He  soon  after  visited  London,  where  he  formed 
friendships  with  the  leading  authors  of  the 
day,  and  in  the  beginning  of  1805  he  placed 
himself  in  the  list  of  classic  writers  by  the 
publication  of  his  first  great  original  work, 
The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  which  was  re- 
ceived with  universal  applause,  and  of  which 
more  than  thirty  thousand  copies  wore  sold  in 
the  ensuing  twenty  years. 

The  limits  of  this  biography  forbid  any 
thing  more  than  an  allusion  to  SCOTT'S  ob- 
taining one  of  the  principal  clerkships  in  the 
Scottish  Court  of  Session,  his  quarrel  with 
Constable,  partnership  with  Ballantyne,  esta- 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


65 


blishment  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  and  early 
ambition  to  elevate  his  social  position  by  ac- 
quiring territorial  possessions. 

In  1805  he  wrote  the  first  chapters  of  a 
novel,  but  the  opinion  of  a  friend  to  whom  the 
manuscript  was  submitted  prevented  its  com- 
pletion. In  1808  he  published  Marmion,  in 
1810  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  in  1811  The  Vi- 
sion of  Don  Roderick,  in  1812  Rokeby,  and 
in  1813  The  Bridal  of  Triermain.  His  poeti- 
cal career  closed  in  1815  with  The  Lord  of  the 
Isles  and  The  Field  of  Waterloo  ;  although  he 
subsequently  published  anonymously  Harold 
the  Dauntless  and  his  Dramatic  Writings, 
which  were  unworthy  of  his  reputation.  His 
range  as  a  poet  was  limited ;  it  had  been  all 
explored ;  and  the  greatest  of  modern  poets 
had  in  the  mean  time  taken  a  place  with  the 
sacred  few  who  are  destined  to  live  immor- 
tally in  men's  hearts.  SCOTT  was  among  the 
first  to  recognise  BYRON'S  superiority.  In 
every  field  he  would  himself  be  first  or  no- 
thing. He  quitted  the  lyre  for  ever. 

SCOTT  had  already  published  his  admirable 
editions  of  SWIFT  and  DRYDEN  ;  and  from  this 
period  till  1825  his  name  was  not  before  the 
public  except  in  connection  with  Paul's  Let- 
ters to  his  Kinsfolk,  and  a  few  articles  in  the 
Quarterly  Review  and  the  Encyclopaedia  Bri- 
tannica.  But  in  these  ten  years  he  laid  the 
foundation  of  the  highest  reputation  which  the 
world  of  letters  has  furnished  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  The  composition  of  the  novel  which 
had  been  commenced  in  1805  was  resumed, 
and  finished  with  remarkable  rapidity.  The 
work  appeared  in  the  summer  of  1814  under 
the  title  of  Waverley,  and  its  success  was 
immediate  and  unparalleled.  The  series  of 
novels  to  which  this  gave  a  distinguishing 
title  followed  each  other  in  quick  succession, 
and  were  translated  into  almost  every  written 
language.  The  Author  of  Waverley  became 
a  part  of  the  existence  of  mankind,  and  the 
discovery  of  his  name  the  great  enigma  of  the 
age.  Guy  Mannering  was  published  in  1815, 
The  Antiquary,  Old  Mortality,  and  the  Black 
Dwarf  in  1816,  Rob  Roy  and  the  Heart  of 
Mid-Lothian  in  1818,  The  Bride  of  Lammer- 
moor  and  the  Legend  of  Montrose  in  1819, 
Ivanhoe,  The  Monastery,  and  The  Abbot  in 
1820,  Kenilworth  in  1821,  The  Pirate  and  the 
Fortunes  of  Nigel  in  1822,  Quentin  Durward 
and  Peveril  of  the  Peak  in  1823,  St.  Ronan's 
Well  and  Redgauntlet  in  1824,  Tales  of  the 


Crusaders  in  1825,  Woodstock  in  1826,  First 
Series  of  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate  and 
Tales  of  a  Grandfather  in  1827,  Second  Series 
of  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate  and  of  the 
Tales  of  a  Grandfather  in  1828,  Anne  of  Geir- 
stein  and  the  Third  Series  of  Tales  of  a  Grand- 
father in  1829,  and  Count  Robert  of  Paris  and 
Castle  Dangerous  in  1831. 

In  these  years  the  estate  of  Abbotsford  had 
been  purchased  and  his  palace  erected.  In 
1820  he  had  been  made  a  baronet,  and  from 
that  time  his  house  had  been  thronged  by  the 
most  illustrious  of  his  contemporaries.  A 
change,  to  SCOTT  of  all  changes  the  most 
terrible,  awaited  him.  In  1826  the  houses  of 
Ballantyne  and  Constable  stopped  payment, 
and  he  was  involved  in  their  ruin.  Though 
the  amount  of  his  debts  seemed  too  great  for 
a  hope  to  exist  that  they  could  ever  be  paid, 
he  refused  to  be  dealt  with  as  a  bankrupt.  He 
pledged  the  exertions  of  his  future  life  to  the 
discharge.of  the  claims  of  his  creditors.  In 
the  two  years  ending  with  1827  he  realized 
from  his  writings  the  astonishing  sum  of  forty 
thousand  pounds,  and  soon  after  his  death  his 
executors  completed  the  payment  of  all  his 
liabilities.  Among  his  latest  works,  contri- 
buting to  this  result,  were  The  History  of 
Scotland  and  The  Life  of  Napoleon.  The 
last  of  these  had  an  immense  sale,  and  brought 
a  larger  profit  than  any  of  his  previous  writ- 
ings. Its  popularity,  however,  was  transient. 
It  is  a  brilliant  chronicle  of  events,  but  par- 
tial in  its  views,  and  executed  with  too  little 
care  and  research  to  add  to  such  a  reputation 
as  Walter  Scott's. 

In  1829  SCOTT'S  health  had  materially  de- 
clined, and  in  the  following  year  his  intellect 
began  to  fail  under  the  weight  of  his  cares 
and  labours.  In  September,  1831,  he  sailed, 
in  a  ship  of  war  furnished  by  the  government, 
for  Malta  and  Naples,  in  the  hope  that  relaxa- 
tion and  a  voyage  at  sea  would  induce  his 
restoration.  After  a  few  months  passed  in 
Italy,  his  mind  became  a  wreck,  and  his 
friends  made  haste  to  reach  home  with  him 
before  his  death.  They  arrived  at  Abbotsford 
on  the  eleventh  of  July,  1832;  he  lingered, 
with  a  few  intervals  of  consciousness,  until 
the  twenty-first  of  September,  and  expired. 
His  remains  are  buried  in  the  romantic  ruins 
of  Dryburgh  Abbey,  which,  like  the  tomb  of 
SHAKSPEARE,  has  become  a  place  of  pilgrim- 
age for  the  world. 

F2 


66 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  CONSTANCE. 

IN  low  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung, 

From  the  rude  rock  the  side-walls  sprung ; 

The  grave-stones,  rudely  sculptured  o'er, 

Half-sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half-wore, 

Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor ; 

The  mildew  drops  fell  one  by  one, 

With  tinkling  plash,  upon  the  stone. 

A  cresset,  in  an  iron  chain, 

Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 

With  damp  and  darkness  seem'd  to  strive, 

As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive ; 

And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 

The  awful  conclave  met  below. 

There,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy, 

Were  met  the  heads  of  convents  three  ; 

All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 

The  statutes  of  whose  order  strict 

On  iron  table  lay  ; 

In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone, 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  shown, 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray  : 
The  abbess  of  Saint  Hilda's,  there, 
Sate  for  a  space  with  visage  bare, 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  tear-drops  that  for  pity  fell, 

She  closely  drew  her  veil ; 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess, 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress, 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  prioress, 

A  nd  she  with  awe  looks  pale : 
And  he,  that  Ancient  Man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quench'd  by  age's  night, 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brow  alone, 
Nor  ruth,  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown, 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern, — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  is  his  style ; 
For  sanctity  call'd,  through  the  isle, 

The  saint  of  Lindisfern. 
Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair ; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 
Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied  ; 
The  cloak  and  doublet,  loosely  tied, 
Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 

Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew ; 
And,  on  her  doublet-breast, 

She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 

Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But,  at  the  prioress'  command, 
A  monk  undid  the  silken  band, 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair, 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head, 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread, 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  de  Beverley  they  know, 
Sister  profess'd  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  church  number'd  with  the  dead, 

For  broken  vows,  and  convent  fled 

Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul, 

Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed  ; 
Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control, 
Because  his  conscience,  sear'd  and  foul, 

Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed  ; 
One,  whose  brute  feeling  ne'er  aspires 


Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 

Such  tools  the  Tempter  ever  needs 

To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds ; 

For  them  no  vision'd  terrors  daunt, 

Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt ; 

One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base — 

The  fear  of  death, — alone  finds  place. 

This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl, 

And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  howl, 

His  body  on  the  floor  to  dash, 

And  crouch,  like  hound  beneath  the  lash ; 

While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near, 

Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 

Yet  well  the  luckless  wretch  might  shriek, 

Well  might  her  paleness  terror  speak  ; 

For  there  were  seen  in  that  dark  wall 

Two.  niches,  narrow,  deep  and  tall ; — 

Who  enters  at  such  griesly  door 

Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,"  find  exit  more. 

In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid, 

Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread : 

By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress, 

Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless  ; 

Who,  holding  high  a  blazing  torch, 

Show'd  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch  : 

Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam, 

The  dark-red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 

Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  display'd, 

And  building  tools  in  order  laid.  ...... 

And  now  that  blind  old  Abbot  rose, 

To  speak  the  Chapter's  doom, 
On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose, 

Alive,  within  the  tomb  : 
But  stopp'd,  because  that  woful  maid, 
Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essay'd. 
Twice  she  essay'd,  and  twice  in  vain ; 
Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain : 
Naught  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 
From  her  convulsed  and  quivering  lip : 

'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still, 

You  seem'd  to  hear  a  distant  rill — 
'Twas  ocean's  swells  and  falls ; 

For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear 

Was  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 

A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear, 

So  massive  were  the  walls. 
At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 
The  blood  that  curdled  at  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  colour  dawn'd  upon  her  cheek, 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak 

By  Autumn's  stormy  sky  ; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length, 
Still  as  she  spoke  she  gather'd  strength, 

And  arm'd  herself  to  bear ; — 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy, 

In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 
"I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace ; 
Well  know  I  for  one  minute's  space 

Successless  might  I  sue  : 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain  ; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain 
To  cleanse  my  sins  be  penance  vain, 

Vain  are  your  masses  too. — 
I  listen'd  to  a  traitor's  tale, 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


67 


I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil ; 
For  three  long  years  I  bow'd  my  pride, 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride ; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave, 
Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave, 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave. 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair, 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir, 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore, 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more ! 

'T  is  an  old  tale,  and  often  told  ; 
But,  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 

Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old, 

Of  maiden  true  betray'd  for  gold, 

That  loved,  or  was  avenged  like  me ! 
The  king  approved  his  favourite's  aim  ; 
In  vain  a  rival  barr'd  his  claim, 

Whose  faith  with  Clare's  was  plight, 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge — and  on  they  came, 

In  mortal  lists  to  fight. 

Their  oaths  are  said,  their  prayers  are  pray'd, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid, 

They  meet  in  mortal  shock ; 
And  hark !  the  throng,  with  thundering  cry, 
Shout  <  Marmion,  Marmion  !'  to  the  sky, 

<  De  Wilton  to  the  block !' 
Say  ye  who  preach,  Heaven  shall  decide 
When  in  the  lists  two  champion's  ride, 

Say,  was  Heaven's  justice  here? 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death, 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear  ! 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell, 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell" — 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast, 
Paused,  gather' d  voice,  and  spoke  the  rest. 
"  Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  stay'd  ; 
To  Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid, 

The  hated  match  to  shun. 
'  Ho  !  shifts  she  thus  !'  King  Henry  cried, 
*  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride, 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun.' 
One  way  remain'd — the  king's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land  : 
I  linger'd  here,  and  rescue  plann'd 

For  Clara  and  for  me  : 
This  catiff  monk,  for  gold,  did  swear 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair, 
And,  by  his  drugs,  my  rival  fair 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be. 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath, 
Whose  cowardice  has  undone  us  both. 
And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells, 
Not  that  remorse  my  bosom  swells, 
But  to  assure  my  soul  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betray'd, 
This  packet,  to  the  king  convey'd, 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke. — 
Now  men  of  death,  work  forth  your  will, 
For  I  can  suffer  and  be  still ; 
And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast, 
It  is  but  Death  who  comes  at  last. 


Yet  dread  me,  from  nay  living  tomb, 

Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Rome  ! 

If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake, 

Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take, 

That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 

Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 

Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 

The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends, 

The  ire  of  a  despotic  king 

Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing. 

Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and  deep, 

Burst  open  to  the  sea-winds'  sweep : 

Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones, 

Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones, 

And,  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty, 

Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be." 

Fix'd  was  her  look,  and  stern  her  air  ; 

Back  from  her  shoulders  stream'd  her  hair ; 

The  locks  that  wont  her  brows  to  shade, 

Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head ; 

Her  figure  seem'd  to  rise  more  high ; 

Her  voice,  despair's  wild  energy 

Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 

Appall'd  the  astonish'd  conclave  sate ; 

With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 

Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form, 

And  listen'd  for  the  avenging  «torm  ; 

The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread  ; 

No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said, 

Till  thus  the  abbot's  doom  was  given, 

Raising  his  sightless  balls  to  heaven  : — 

"  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease  ; 

Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace  !" — 

From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom, 

Of  execution  too,  and  tomb, 

Paced  forth  the  judges  three; 
Sorrow  it  were,  and  shame,  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befell, 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 

Of  sin  and  misery. 
An  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day ; 
But  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air 
They  heard  the  shriekings  of  despair, 

And  many  a  stifled  groan  : 
With  speed  their  upward  way  they  take, 
(Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make,) 
And  cross'd  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 

As  hurrying,  tottering  on, 
Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone, 
They  seem'd  to  hear  a  dying  groan, 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
For  welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 
Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung ; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  roll'd, 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told ; 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said  ; 
So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 
The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 
Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Then  couch'd  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound,  so  dull  and  stern. 


68 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


HUNTING  SONG. 

WAKEN,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day  ; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 

With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting-spear; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrily,  merrily  mingle  they, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  streaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  hrake  are  gleaming ; 

And  foresters  have  busy  been, 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green  ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  green-wood  haste  away ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd  ; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them,  youth,  and  mirth,  and  glee, 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we. 

Time,  stern  huntsman!  who  can  balk, 

Staunch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk  1 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 


THE  CYPRESS  WREATH. 

O  LADY,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress  tree  ! 
Too  lively  glow  the  lilies  light, 
The  varnish'd  holly  's  all  too  bright ; 
The  May-flower  and  the  eglantine 
May  shade  a  brow  less  sad  than  mine ; 
But,  lady,  weave  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  weave  it  of  the  cypress  tree  ! 

Let  dimpled  Mirth  his  temples  twine 
With  tendrils  of  the  laughing  vine ; 
The  manly  oak,  the  pensive  yew, 
To  patriot  and  to  sage  be  due ; 
The  myrtle  bough  bids  lovers  live, 
But  that  Matilda  will  not  give  ; 
Then,  lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress  tree  ! 

Let  merry  England  proudly  rear 

Her  blended  roses,  bought  so  dear; 

Let  Albin  bind  her  bonnet  blue 

With  heath  and  hare-bell  dipp'd  in  dew, 

On  favour'd  Erin's  crest  be  seen 

The  flower  she  loves  of  emerald  green — 


But,  lady,  twine  no  wreath  for  me, 
Or  twine  it  of  the  cypress  tree  ! 

Strike  the  wild  harp,  while  maids  prepare 
The  ivy  meet  for  minstrel's  hair ; 
And,  while  his  crown  of  laurel-leaves 
With  bloody  hand  the  victor  weaves, 
Let  the  loud  trump  his  triumph  tell ; 
But  when  you  hear  the  passing  bell, 
Then,  lady,  twine  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  twine  it  of  the  cypress  tree. 

Yes  !  twine  for  me  the  cypress  bough ; 
But,  O  Matilda,  twine  not  now  ! 
Stay  till  a  few  brief  months  are  past, 
And  I  have  look'd  and  loved  my  last ! 
When  villagers  my  shroud  bestrew 
With  pansies,  rosemary,  and  rue, — 
Then,  lady,  weave  a  wreath  for  me, 
And  weave  it  of  the  cypress  tree. 


LOCHINVAR. 

THE  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapon  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarm'd,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stay'd  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopp'd  not  for  stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 
But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late : 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  enter'd  the  Netherby  Hall,  [and  all : 
Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers, 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 
'•  O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  lord  Lochinvar  1" — 

"  I  long  woo'd  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied ; — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide — 
And  now  I  am  come  with  this  lost  love  of  mine 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kiss'd  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaff'd  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  look'd  down  to  blush,  and  she  look'd  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure !"  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grare; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume  ; 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 

plume ; 
And  the  bridemaidens  whispcr'd,  « 'T  were  better 

by  far 
To   have    match'd   OUF   fair  cousin  with  young 

Lochinvar." 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


69 


One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reach'd  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger 

stood  near; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 
"  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and 

scaur, 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Grsemes  of  the  Nether- 

by  clan  ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and 

they  ran  : 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  1 


FITZ-JAMES  AND  RODERICK  DHU. 

THEX  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew, 
Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw, 
Each  look'd  to  sun,  and  stream,  and  plain, 
As  what  he  ne'er  might  see  again ; 
Then,  foot,  and  point,  and  eye  opposed, 
In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. — 
III  fared  it  now  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw, 
Whose  brazen  studs,  and  tough  bull-hide, 
Had  death  so  often  turn'd  aside ; 
For,  train'd  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 
Fitz-James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield  : 
He  practised  every  pass  and  ward, 
To  feint,  to  thrust,  to  strike,  to  guard  : 
While,  less  expert,  though  stronger  far, 
The  Gael  maintain'd  unequal  war. 
Three  tirries  in  closing  strife  they  stood, 
And  thrice  the  Saxon  sword  drank  blood  ; 
No  stinted  draught — no  scanty  tide  ! 
The  gushing  flood  the  tartans  dyed : 
Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain, 
And  shower'd  his  blows  like  wintry  rain; 
And  as  firm  tower,  or  castle-roof, 
Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof, 
The  foe,  invulnerable  still, 
Foil'd  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill ; 
Till,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand 
Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand, 
And  backwards  borne  upon  the  lea, 
Brought  the  proud  chieftain  to  his  knee. 
"  Now  yield  thee,  or  by  him  who  made 
The  world  !  thy  heart-blood  dyes  my  blade."- 
"  Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy ; 
Let  recreant  yield,  who  fears  to  die." — 
Like  adder  darting  from  his  coil — 
Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil — 
Like  mountain-cat  that  guards  her  young, 
Full  at  Fitz-James's  throat  he  sprung : 
Received,  but  reck'd  not  of  a  wound, 
And  lock'd  his  arms  his  foeman  round. 
Now,  gallant  Saxon  !   hold  thy  own  ; 
No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown ! 


That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel 

Through  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel. 

They  tug,  they  strain — down,  down  they  go, — 

The  Gael  above,  Fitz-James  below  ! 

The  chieftain's  gripe  his  throat  compress'd, 

His  knee  was  planted  in  his  breast ; 

His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw, 

Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew, 

From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight — 

Then  gleam'd  aloft  his  dagger  bright; 

But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 

The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide ; 

And  all  too  late  the  advantage  came 

To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game ; 

For  while  the  dagger  gleam'd  on  high, 

Reel'd  soul  and  sense,  reel'd  brain  and  eye. 

Down  came  the  blow — but  in  the  heath 

The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. — 

The  struggling  foe  may  now  unclasp 

The  fainting  chief's  relaxing  grasp. 

Un wounded  from  the  dreadful  close, 

But  breathless  all,  Fitz-Janies  arose. 


A  BRIDAL. 

BREATHES  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim ; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonoured,  and  unsung. 

O  Caledonia  !  stern  and  wild, 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child  ! 
Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 
Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood, 
Land  of  rny  sires !  what  mortal  hand 
Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band 
That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand  ? 
Still,  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene, 
Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been, 
Seems,  as  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 
Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left ; 
And  thus  I  love  them  better  still, 
Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 
By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  me  stray, 
Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way ; 
Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break, 
Although  it  chill  my  wither'd  cheek  ; 
Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  stone, 
Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 
The  bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

Not  scorn'd  like  me,  to  Branksome  hall 
The  minstrels  came,  at  festive  call ; 


70 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT. 


Trooping  they  came,  from  near  and  far, 
The  jovial  priests  of  mirth  and  war  : 
Alike  for  feast  and  fight  prepared, 
Battle  and  banquet  both  they  shared. 
Of  late,  before  each  martial  clan, 
They  blew  their  death-note  in  the  van, 
But  now,  for  every  merry  mate, 
Rose  the  portcullis'  iron  grate ; 
They  sound  the  pipe,  they  strike  the  string, 
They  dance,  they  revel,  and  they  sing, 
Till  the  rude  turrets  shake  and  ring. 
Me  lists  not  at  this  tide  declare 

The  splendour  of  the  spousal  rite, 
How  muster'd  in  the  chapel  fair 

Both  maid  and  matron,  squire  and  knight; 
Me  lists  not  tell  of  owches  rare, 
Of  mantles  green,  and  braided  hair, 
And  kirtles  furred  with  miniver; 
What  plumage  waved  the  altar  round, 
How  spurs,  and  ringing  chainlets,  sound : 
And  hard  it  were  for  bard  to  speak 
The  changeful  hue  of  Margaret's  cheek, 
That  lovely  hue  which  comes  and  flies, 
As  awe  and  shame  alternate  rise. 
Some  bards  have  sung,  the  ladye  high 
Chapel  or  altar  came  not  nigh; 
Nor  durst  the  rites  of  spousal  grace, 
So  much  she  feared  each  holy  place. 
False  slanders  these :  I  trust  right  well 
She  wrought  not  by  forbidden  spell : 
For  mighty  words  and  signs  have  power 
O'er  sprites  in  planetary  hour : 
Yet  scarce  I  praise  their  venturous  part, 
Who  tamper  with  such  dangerous  art. 
But  this  for  faithful  truth  I  say, 

The  ladye  by  the  altar  stood, 
Of  sable  velvet  her  array, 

And  on  her  head  a  crimson  hood, 
With  pearls  embroidered  and  entwined, 
Guarded  with  gold,  with  ermine  lined  ; 
A  merlin  sat  upon  her  wrist, 
Held  by  a  leash  of  silken  twist. 
The  spousal  rites  were  ended  soon  ; 
'Twas  now  the  merry  hour  of  noon, 
And  in  the  lofty  arched  hall 
Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival. 
Steward  and  squire,  with  heedful  haste, 
Marshall'd  the  rank  of  every  guest ; 
Pages,  with  ready  blade,  were  there, 
The  mighty  meal  to  carve  and  share ; 
O'er  capon,  heron-shew,  and  crane, 
And  princely  peacock's  gilded  train, 
And  o'er  the  boar-head,  garnish'd  brave, 
And  cynget  from  St.  Mary's  wave, 
O'er  ptarmigan  and  venison, 
The  priest  had  spoke  his  benison. 
Then  rose  the  riot  and  the  din, 
Above,  beneath,  without,  within  ! 
For,  from  the  lofty  balcony, 
Rung  trumpet,  shalm,  and  psaltery  ; 
Their  clanging  bowls  old  warriors  quaff'd, 
Loudly  they  spoke,  and  loudly  laugh'd  ; 
Whisper'd    young    knights,    in    tone    more 

mild, 
To  ladies  fair,  and  ladies  smiled. 


The  hooded  hawks,  high  perch'd  on  beam, 
The  clamour  join'd  with  whistling  scream, 
And  flapp'd  their  wings,  and  shook  their  bells, 
In  concert  with  the  stag-hounds'  yells. 
Round  go  the  flasks  of  ruddy  wine, 
From  Bourdeaux,  Orleans,  or  the  Rhine ; 
Their  tasks  the  busy  sewers  ply, 
And  all  is  mirth  and  revelry. 


THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 

THE  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold. 
The  minstrel  was  infirm  and  old ; 
His  wither'd  cheek  and  tresses  gray 
Seem'd  to  have  known  a  better  day ; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he, 
Who  sung  of  border  chivalry. 
For,  well-a-day  !  their  date  was  fled, 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead ; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed, 
Wish'd  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 
No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 
He  caroll'd,  light  as  lark  at  mom ; 
No  longer,  courted  and  caress'd, 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest, 
He  pour'd,  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 
The  unpremeditated  lay  : 
Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone ; 
A  stranger  fill'd  the  Stuarts'  throne ; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  call'd  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wandering  harper,  scorn'd  and  poor, 
He  begg'd  his  bread  from  door  to  door ; 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 
The  harp  a  king  had  loved  to  hear. 

He  pass'd  where  Newark's  stately  tower 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birchen  bower : 
The  minstrel  gazed  with  wistful  eye — 
No  humbler  resting-place  was  nigh. 
With  hesitating  step,  at  last, 
The  embattled  portal-arch  he  pass'd, 
Whose  ponderous  grate  and  massy  bar 
Had  oft  roll'd  back  the  tide  of  war, 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  duchess  marked  his  weary  pace, 
His  timid  mien,  and  reverend  face, 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell, 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well : 
For  she  had  known  adversity, 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degree  ; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb. 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied, 
And  the  old  man  was  gratified, 
Began  to  rise  his  minstrel  pride; 
And  he  began  to  talk  anon 
Of  good  Earl  Francis,  dead  and  gone, 
And  of  Earl  Walter,  rest  him  God ! 
A  braver  ne'er  to  battle  rode ; 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


71 


And  how  full  many  a  tale  he  knew, 

Of  the  old  warriors  of  Buccleuch  ; 

And,  would  the  noble  duchess  deign 

To  listen  to  an  old  man's  strain, 

Though  stiff  his  hand,  his  voice  though  weak 

He  thought,  even  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak, 

That  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear, 

He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtain'd  ; 
The  aged  minstrel  audience  gained. 
But,  when  he  reached  the  room  of  state, 
Where  she  with  all  her  ladies  sate, 
Perchance  he  wished  his  boon  denied ; 
For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried, 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease, 
Which  marks  security  to  please ; 
And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain, 
Came  wildering  o'er  his  aged  brain — 
He  tried  to  time  his  harp  in  vain. 
The  pitying  duchess  praised  its  chime, 
Arid  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  time, 
Till  every  string's  according  glee 
Was  blended  into  harmony. 
And  then,  he  said,  he  would  full  fain 
He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain, 
He  never  thought  to  sing  again. 
It  was  not  framed  for  village  churls, 
But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls  ; 
He  had  play'd  it  to  King  Charles  the  good, 
When  he  kept  court  in  Holyrood  ; 
And  much  he  wish'd,  yet  fear'd,  to  try, 
The  long-forgotten  melody. 
Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  stray 'd, 
And  an  uncertain  warbling  made, 
And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 
But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild, 
The  old  man  raised  his  face,  and  smiled ; 
And  lighten'd  up  his  faded  eye, 
With  all  a  poet's  ecstasy  ! 
In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong, 
He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along  : 
The  present  scene,  the  future  lot, 
His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot : 
Cold  diffidence  and  age's  frost, 
In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost ; 
Each  blank,  in  faithless  memory  void, 
The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied  ; 
And  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 
'T  was  thus  the  latest  minstrel  sung. 


THE  TEVIOT. 

SWEET  Teviot,  by  thy  silver  tide, 

The  glaring  bale-fires  blaze  no  more  ! 
No  longer  steel-clad  warriors  ride 

Along  thy  wild  and  willow'd  shore ; 
W'here'er  thou  wind'st,  by  dale  or  hill, 
All,  all  is  peaceful,  all  is  still, 

As  if  thy  waves,  since  Time  was  born, 
Since  first  they  roll'd  their  way  to  Tweed, 
Had  only  heard  the  shepherd's  reed, 

Nor  started  at  the  bue!e-horn  ! 
Unlike  the  tide  of  human  lime, 

Which,  though  it  change  in  ceaseless  flow, 


Retains  each  grief,  retains  each  crime, 

Its  earliest  course  was  doorn'd  to  know ; 
And,  darker  as  it  downward  bears, 
Is  stain'd  with  past  and  present  tears ! 
Low  as  that  tide  has  ebb'd  with  me, 
It  still  reflects  to  Memory's  eye 
The  hour,  my  brave,  my  only  boy, 

Fell  by  the  side  of  great  Dundee. 
Why,  when  the  volleying  musket  play'd 
Against  the  bloody  Highland  blade, 
Why  was  not  I  beside  him  laid  ! — 
Enough — he  died  the  death  of  fame; 
Enough — he  died  with  conquering  Graeme. 


HELLVELLYN. 

I  CLIME'D  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Hellvellyn, 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleam'd  misty 

and  wide ; 
All  was  still,  save  by  fits  when  the  eagle  was  yelling, 

Arid  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red-tarn  was 

bending, 

A  nd  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 
When  I  mark'd  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer 
had  died. 

"Dark  green  was  the  spot  mid  the  brown  meadow 

heather, 
Where  the  pilgrim  of  nature  lay  stretch'd  in 

decay, — 

Like  the  course  of  an  outcast  abandon'd  to  weather, 
Till  the  mountain-winds  wasted  the  tenantless 

clay. 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended, 
For  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favourite  attended, 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended, 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was 

slumber? 
When  the  wind  waved   his  garment  how  oft 

didst  thou  start '! 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst  thou 

number, 

Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  1 
And,  oh !  was  it  meet,  that — no  requiem  read  o'er 

him, 

No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him, 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretch'd  before 

him — 
Unhonour'd  the  pilgrim  from  life  should  depart] 

When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peasant  has 
yielded, 

The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted 

hall ; 

With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 
And  pases  stand  muto  by  the  canopied  pall  : 
Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches 

are  gleaming. 

In    the    proudly-arch'd    chapel   the   banners   are 
beaming, 


72 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT. 


Far   adown   the    long    aisle    sacred    music   is 

streaming, 
Lamenting  a  chief  of  the  people  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature, 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain 

lamb; 
When,  wilder'd  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in 

stature, 

And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake 


Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying, 

With  one  faithful  friend  to  witness  thy  dying, 

In  the  arms  of  Hellvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 


A  SCENE  IN  BRANKSOME  TOWER. 

MA-NT  a  valiant  knight  is  here ; 
But  he,  the  chieftain  of  them  all, 
His  sword  hangs  rusting  on  the  wall, 

Beside  his  broken  spear  ! 
Bards  long  shall  tell, 
How  Lord  Walter  fell ! 
When  startled  burghers  fled,  afar, 
The  furies  of  the  Border  war ; 
When  the  streets  of  high  Dunedin 
Saw  lances  gleam,  and  falchions  redden, 
And  heard  the  slogan's  deadly  yell — 
Then  the  Chief  of  Branksome  fell ! 

Can  piety  the  discord  heal, 

Or  stanch  the  death-feud's  enmity  ? 
Can  Christian  lore,  can  patriot  zeal, 

Can  love  of  blessed  charity  ? 
No  !  vainly  to  each  holy  shrine, 

In  mutual  pilgrimage,  they  drew; 
Implored,  in  vain,  the  grace  divine 

For  chiefs,  their  own  red  falchions  slew, 
While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Car, 

While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 
The  slaughter'd  chiefs,  the  mortal  jar, 
The  havoc  of  the  feudal  war, 

Shall  never,  never  be  forgot ! 

In  sorrow  o'er  Lord  Walter's  bier, 
The  warlike  foresters  had  bent; 
And  many  a  flower  and  many  a  tear, 

Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matrons  lent : 
But,  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier, 
The  Layde  dropp'd  nor  sigh  nor  tear! 
Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain, 

Had  lock'd  the  source  of  softer  wo  ; 
And  burning  pride,  and  high  disdain, 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow  ; 
Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan, 

Her  son  lisp'd  from  the  nurse's  knee — 
"  And,  if  I  live  to  be  a  man, 

My  father's  death  revenged  shall  be !" 
Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 
To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSE. 

E:\CH  ANTRKSS,  farewell !  who  so  oft  has  decoy'd  me, 
At  the  close  of  the  evening  through  woodlands 

to  roam, 

Where  the  forester,  lated,  with  wonder  espied  me 

Explore  the  wild  scenes  he  was  quitting  for  home. 

Farewell !  and  take  with  thee  thy  numbers  wild 

speaking, 

The  language  alternate  of  rapture  and  wo ; 
Oh  !  none  but  some  lover,  whose  heartstrings  are 

breaking 
The  pang  that  I  feel  at  our  parting  can  know. 

Each  joy  thou  couldst  double,  and  when  there 

came  sorrow, 

Or  pale  disappointment  to  darken  my  way, 
What  voice  was  like  thine,  that  could  sing  of  to- 
morrow, 

Till  forgot  in  the  strain  was  the  grief  of  to-day  ! 
But  when  friends  drop  around  us  in  life's  weary 

waning, 
The  grief,  queen  of  numbers,  thou  canst  not 

assuage ; 

Nor  the  gradual   estrangement  of  those  yet  re- 
maining, 
The  languor  of  pain,  and  the  chillness  of  age. 

'T  was  thou  that  once  taught  me,  in  accents  be- 
wailing, 

To  sing  how  a  warrior  lay  stretch'd  on  the  plain  ; 
And  a  maiden  hung  o'er  him  with  aid  unavailing, 

And  held  to  his  lips  the  cold  goblet  in  vain: 
As  vain  those  enchantments,   O   queen  of   wild 
numbers, 

To  a  bard  when  the  reign  of  his  fancy  is  o'er, 
And  the  quick  pulse  of  feeling  in  apathy  slumbers, — 

Farewell  then,  enchantress !  I  meet  thee  no  more ! 


MELROSE  ABBEY. 

IF  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight  : 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 
When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 
And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white; 
When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruin'd  central  tower ; 
When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 
Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory  ; 
When  silver  edges  the  imagery. 
And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die ; 
When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 
And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave 
Then  go  ! — but  go  alone  the  while — 
Then  view  St.  David's  ruin'd  pile  ! 
And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 
Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  lair  ! 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY  is  the  most  popular  of 
the  religious  poets  who  have  written  in  Eng- 
land since  the  time  of  COWPER,  and  he  is 
more  exclusively  the  poet  of  devotion  than 
even  the  bard  of  Olney.  Probably  no  writer 
is  less  indebted  to  a  felicitous  selection  of 
subjects,  since  the  themes  of  nearly  all  his 
longer  productions  are  unpleasing  and  uri- 
poetical ;  but  for  half  a  century  he  has  been 
slowly  and  constantly  increasing  in  reputa- 
tion, and  he  has  now  a  name  which  will  not 
be  forgotten,  while  taste  and  the  religious 
sentiment  exist  together. 

Mr.  MONTGOMERY  is  the  oldest  son  of  a 
Moravian  clergyman,  and  was  born  at  Irvine, 
in  Scotland,  on  the  fourth  of  November,  1771. 
At  a  very  early  age  he  was  placed  by  his 
parents,  who  had  determined  to  educate  him 
for  the  Moravian  ministry,  at  one  of  the  semi- 
naries of  their  church,  where  he  remained  ten 
years.  At  the  end  of  this  period,  he  decided 
not  to  study  the  profession  to  which  he  had 
been  destined,  and  was  in  consequence  placed 
with  a  shopkeeper  in  Yorkshire.  Ill  satisfied 
with  his  employment,  he  abandoned  it  at  the 
end  of  a  few  months,  and  when  but  sixteen 
made  his  first  appearance  in  London, 'with  a 
manuscript  volume  of  poems,  of  which  he 
vainly  endeavoured  to  procure  the  publication. 
In  1792  he  went  to  Sheffield,  where  he  was 
soon  after  engaged  as  a  writer  for  a  weekly 
gazette  published  by  a  Mr.  Gales,  and  in  1794, 
on  the  flight  of  his  employer  from  England  to 
avoid  a  political  prosecution,  he  himself  be- 
came publisher  and  editor,  and  changing  the 
name  of  the  paper  to  "The  Iris,"  conducted 
it  with  much  taste,  ability,  and  moderation. 
It  was  still,  however,  obnoxious  to  the  govern- 
ment, and  Mr.  MONTGOMERY  was  prosecuted 
for  printing  in  it  a  song  commemorative  of  the 
destruction  of  the  Bastile,  fined  twenty  pounds, 
and  imprisoned  three  rrionths  in  York  Castle. 
On  resuming  his  editorial  duties  he  carefully 
avoided  partisan  politics,  but  after  a  brief  pe- 
riod he  was  arrested  for  an  offensive  passage 
in  an  account  which  he  gave  of  a  riot  in  Shef- 
field, and  was  again  imprisoned.  It  was  during 


his  second  imprisonment,  that  he  wrote  his 
Prison  Amusements,  which  appeared  in  1797. 
From  this  time  his  poems  followed  each  other 
in  rapid  succession.  In  1805  he  published  the 
Ocean,  in  1806  the  Wanderer  of  Switzerland, 
in  1810  the  West  Indies,  in  1812  the  World 
before  the  Flood,  in  1819  Greenland,  in  1822 
Songs  of  Zion,  in  1827  the  Pelican  Island,  and 
in  1835  A  Poet's  Portfolio,  or  Minor  Poems. 
Beside  these,  he  has  written  Songs  to  Foreign 
Music,  and  several  smaller  volumes  of  mis- 
cellaneous pieces.  Mr.  MONTGOMERY  had 
published  but  few  of  these  works  before  his 
reputation  was  established  as  a  poet  of  a  high 
order.  The  \Vanderer  of  Switzerland  was 
severely  criticised  in  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
and  the  West  Indies  was  received  by  the  critics 
with  less  favour  than  it  merited.  Greenland 
was  more  popular  than  his  earlier  works;  the 
subject  more  in  unison  with  his  devotional 
cast  of  thought;  and  the  poem  is  full  of 
graphic  descriptions,  and  rich  and  varied 
imagery.  The  patient  and  earnest  labours  of 
the  Moravian  missionaries  are  described  in  it 
with  a  sympathetic  and  genuine  enthusiasm. 

The  minor  poerns  of  Mr.  MONTGOMERY,  his 
little  songs  and  cabinet  pieces,  will  be  the 
most  frequently  read,  and  the  most  generally 
admired.  They  have  the  antique  simplicity 
of  pious  GEORGE  WITHERS,  a  natural  unaf- 
fected earnestness,  joined  to  a  pure  and  poe- 
tical diction,  which  will  secure  to  them  a 
permanent  place  in  English  literature.  The 
character  of  his  genius  is  essentially  lyrical ; 
he  has  no  dramatic  power,  and  but  little  skill 
in  narrative.  His  longest  and  most  elaborate 
works,  though  they  contain  beautiful  and 
touching  reflections,  and  descriptions  equally 
distinguished  for  minuteness,  fidelity,  and 
beauty,  are  without  incident  or  method ;  but 
his  shorter  pieces  are  full  of  devotion  to  the 
Creator,  sympathy  with  the  suffering,  and  a 
cheerful,  hopeful  philosophy. 

Mr.  MONTGOMERY  is  now  seventy-four  years 
of  age.  He  resides  in  Sheffield,  where  he  is 
regarded  by  all  classes  with  respect  and  af- 
fection. 

G  73 


74 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


THE  GRAVE. 

THERE  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 

A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found, 
They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 

Low  in  the  ground. 

The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  sky 
No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose, 
Than  summer-evening's  latest  sigh 

That  shuts  the  rose. 

I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 

And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil, 
To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 

From  all  my  toil. 

For  misery  stole  me  at  my  birth, 

And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild ! 
I  perish  ; — 0  my  mother  Earth, 

Take  home  thy  child. 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined, 

Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee ; 
Nor  leave  one  wretched  trace  behind 

Resembling  me. 

Hark  !  a  strange  sound  affrights  mine  ear ; 

My  pulse, — my  brain  runs  wild, — I  rave : 
Ah  !  who  art  thou  whose  voice  I  hear  1 

"  I  AM  THE  GRAVE. 

"  The  GRAVE,  that  never  spake  before, 

Hath  found  at  length  a  tongue  to  chide : 
Oh  listen  !  I  will  speak  no  more  ; — 

Be  silent,  pride ! 

"Art  thou  a  WRETCH  of  hope  forlorn, 

The  victim  of  consuming  care  1 
Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 

By  fell  despair  1 

"  Do  foul  misdeeds  of  former  times 

Wring  with  remorse  thy  guilty  breast  1 
And  ghosts  of  unforgiven  crimes 

Murder  thy  rest  1 

"Lash'd  by  the  furies  of  the  mind. 

From  wrath  and  vengeance  wouldst  thou  flee  1 
Ah !  think  not,  hope  not,  fool,  to  find 

A  friend  in  me  : 

"  By  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb, — 

Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell : 
By  the  dread  secrets  of  my  womb  ; 

By  death  and  hell. 

"  I  charge  thee  LIVE  !  repent  and  pray, 

In  dust  thine  infamy  deplore  : 
There  yet  is  mercy, — go  thy  way, 

And  sin  no  more. 

"  Art  thou  a  WANDERER  ? — hast  thou  seen 
O'erwhelming  tempests  drown  thy  bark  1 
A  shipwreck'd  sufferer,  hast  thou  been 

Misfortune's  mark! 

"Art  thou  a  MOURNER  ? — hast  thou  known 

The  joy  of  innocent  delights ; 
Endearing  days  for  ever  flown, 

And  tranquil  nights? 


"  O  LIVE  ! — and  deeply  cherish  still 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past  : 
Rely  on  Heaven's  unchanging  will 

For  peace  at  last. 

"  Though  long  of  winds  and  waves  the  sport, 

Condemn'd  in  wretchedness  to  roam : 
LIVE !  thou  shalt  reach  a  sheltering  port, — 
A  quiet  home. 

"To  FRIENDSHIP  didst  thou  trust  thy  fame, 

And  was  thy  friend  a  deadly  foe, — 
Who  stole  into  thy  breast,  to  aim 

A  surer  blow  1 

"  LIVE  ! — and  repine  not  o'er  his  loss, — 

A  loss  unworthy  to  be  told : 
Thou  hast  mistaken  sordid  dross 

For  friendship's  gold. 

"  Sh>ek  the  true  treasure,  seldom  found, 

Of  power  the  fiercest  griefs  to  calm ; 

And  soothe  the  bosom's  deepest  wound 

With  heavenly  balm. 

"Did  WOMAN'S  charm  thy  youth  beguile, — 

And  did  the  fair  one  faithless  prove] 
Hath  she  betray 'd  thee  with  a  smile, 

And  sold  thy  love  ? 

"  LIVE  !     'T  was  a  false  bewildering  fire  ; 

Too  often  love's  insidious  dart 
Thrills  the  fond  soul  with  wild  desire, — 

But  kills  the  heart. 

"  Thou  yet  shall  know  how  sweet,  how  dear, 

To  gaze  on  listening  beauty's  eye  ; 
To  ask, — and  pause  in  hope  and  fear 

Till  she  reply. 

"  A  nobler  flame  shall  warm  thy  breast, — 

A  brighter  maiden  faithful  prove  ; 
Thy  youth,  thine  age,  shall  yet  be  blest 

In  woman's  love. 

"  Whate'er  thy  lot — whoe'er  thou  be, 

Confess  thy  folly, — kiss  the  rod  ; 
And  in  thy  chastening  sorrows  see 

The  hand  of  GOD. 

"  A  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, — 

Afflictions  all  his  children  feel : 
He  wounds  them  for  his  mercy's  sake, — 

He  wounds  to  heal. 

«  Humbled  beneath  his  mighty  hand, 

Prostrate  his  Providence  adore : 
'Tis  done  !  Arise  !  HE  bids  thee  stand, 

To  fall  no  more. 

"  Now,  traveller  in  the  vale  of  tears, 

To  realms  of  everlasting  light, 
Through  Time's  dark  wilderness  of  years 

Pursue  thy  flight. 

"There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 

A  rest  for  wearv  pilgrims  found  ; 
And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 

Low  in  the  ground. 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


75 


"  The  Soul,  of  origin  divine, 

GOD'S  glorious  image,  freed  from  clay, 
In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine 

A  star  of  day. 

"  The  SUN  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, — 

A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky  : 
The  SOUL,  immortal  as  its  Sire, 

SHALL  NEVER  DIE  !' 


THE   PILLOW. 

THE  head  that  oft  this  pillow  press'd, 
That  aching  head,  is  gone  to  rest ; 
Its  little  pleasures  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  mighty  sorrows  o'er, 
For  ever,  in  the  worm's  dark  bed, 
For  ever  sleeps  that  humble  head  ! 

My  friend  was  young,  the  world  was  new 
The  world  was  false,  my  friend  was  true ; 
Lowly  his  lot,  his  birth  obscure, 
His  fortune  hard,  my  friend  was  poor ; 
To  wisdom  he  had  no  pretence, 
A  child  of  suffering,  not  of  sense ; 
For  Nature  never  did  impart 
A  weaker  or  a  warmer  heart. 
His  fervent  soul,  a  soul  of  flame, 
Consumed  its  frail  terrestrial  frame ; 
That  fire  from  Heaven  so  fiercely  burn'd, 
That  whence  it  came  it  soon  retum'd  : 
And  yet,  0  Pillow  !  yet  to  me, 
My  gentle  friend  survives  in  thee ; 
In  thee,  the  partner  of  his  bed, 
In  thee,  the  widow  of  the  dead. 

On  Helicon's  inspiring  brink, 
Ere  yet  my  friend  had  learn'd  to  think, 
Once  as  he  pass'd  the  careless  day 
Among  the  whispering  reeds  at  play, 
The  Muse  of  Sorrow  wander'd  by  ; 
Her  pensive  beauty  fix'd  his  eye  ; 
With  sweet  astonishment  he  smiled  ; 
The  Gipsy  saw — she  stole  the  child ; 
And  soft  on  her  ambrosial  breast 
Sang  the  delighted  babe  to  rest; 
Convey'd  him  to  her  inmost  grove, 
And  loved  him  with  a  mother's  love. 
Awaking  from  his  rosy  nap, 
And  gayly  sporting  on  her  lap, 
His  wanton  fingers  o'er  her  lyre 
Twinkled  like  electric  fire  : 
Quick  arid  quicker  as  they  flew, 
Sweet  and  sweeter  tones  they  drew  ; 
Now  a  bolder  hand  he  flings, 
And  dives  among  the  deepest  strings ; 
Then  forth  the  music  brake  like  thunder ; 
Back  he  started,  wild  with  wonder. 
The  Muse  of  Sorrow  wept  for  joy, 
Arid  clasp'd  and  kiss'd  her  chosen  boy. 

Ah !  then  no  more  his  smiling  hours 
Were  spent  in  childhood's  Eden-bowers  ; 
The  fall  from  infant-innocence, 
The  fall  to  knowledge  drives  us  thence : 
O  Knowledge  !   worthless  as  the  price, 
Bought  with  the  loss  of  Paradise. 
As  happy  ignorance  declined, 


And  reason  rose  upon  his  mind, 
Romantic  hopes  arid  fond  desires 
(Sparks  of  the  soul's  immortal  fires) 
Kindled  within  his  breast  the  rage 
To  breathe  through  every  future  age, 
To  clasp  the  flitting  shade  of  fame, 
To  build  an  everlasting  name, 
O'erleap  the  narrow  vulgar  span, 
And  live  beyond  the  life  of  rnan. 

Then  Nature's  charms  his  heart  possess'd, 
And  Nature's  glory  fiil'd  his  breast: 
The  sweet  spring-morning's  infant  rays, 
Meridian  summer's  youthful  blaze, 
Maturer  autumn's  evening  mild, 
And  hoary  winter's  midnight  wild, 
Awoke  his  eye,  inspired  his  tongue  ; 
For  every  scene  he  loved,  he  sung. 
Rude  were  his  songs,  and  simple  truth, 
Till  boyhood  blossom'd  into  youth  ; 
Then  nobler  themes  his  fancy  fired, 
To  bolder  fights  his  soul  aspired  ; 
And  as  the  new  moon's  opening  eye 
Broadens  and  brightens  through  the  sky. 
From  the  dim  streak  of  western  light 
To  the  full  orb  that  rules  the  night ; 
Thus,  gathering  lustre  in  its  race, 
And  shining  through  unbounded  space, 
From  earth  to  heaven  his  genius  soar'd, 
Time  and  eternity  explored, 
And  hail'd  where'er  its  footsteps  trod, 
In  Nature's  temple,  Nature's  God  : 
Or  pierced  the  human  breast,  to  scan 
The  hidden  majesty  of  man ; 
Man's  hidden  weakness  too  descried, 
His  glory,  grandeur,  meanness,  pride  : 
Pursued  along  their  erring  course 
The  streams  of  passion  to  their  source  : 
Or  in  the  mind's  creation  sought 
New  stars  of  fancy,  worlds  of  thought. 
— Yet  still  through  all  his  strains  would  flow 
A  tone  of  uncomplaining  wo, 
Kind  as  the  tear  in  Pity's  eye, 
Soft  as  the  slumbering  infant's  sigh, 
So  sweetly,  exquisitely  wild. 
It  spake  the  Muse  of  Sorrow's  child. 

O  Pillow  !  then,  when  light  withdrew, 
To  thee  the  fond  enthusiast  flew  ; 
On  thee,  in  pensive  mood  reclined, 
He  pour'd  his  contemplative  mind, 
Till  o'er  his  eyes  with  mild  control 
Sleep  like  a  soft  enchantment  stole, 
Charm'd  into  life  his  airy  schemes, 
And  realized  his  waking  dreams. 

Soon  from  those  waking  dreams  he  woke, 
The  fairy  spell  of  fancy  broke ; 
In  vain  he  breathed  a  soul  of  fire 
Through  every  chord  that  strung  his  lyre. 
No  friendly  echo  cheer'd  his  tongue ; 
Amidst  the  wilderness  he  sung ; 
Louder  and  bolder  bards  were  crown'd, 
Whose  dissonance  his  music  drown'd ; 
The  public  ear,  the  public  voice, 
Despised  his  song,  denied  his  choice, 
Denied  a  name, — a  life  in  death, 
Denied — a  bubble  and  a  breath. 


76 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


Stript  of  his  fondest,  dearest  claim, 
And  disinherited  of  fame. 
To  thee,  O  Pillow !  thee  alone, 
He  made  his  silent  anguish  known ; 
His  haughty  spirit  scorn'd  the  blow 
That  laid  his  high  ambition  low ; 
But,  ah  !  his  looks  assumed  in  vain 
A  cold  ineffable  disdain, 
While  deep  he  cherish'd  in  his  breast 
The  scorpion  that  consumed  his  rest 

Yet  other  secret  griefs  had  he, 
O  Pillow  !  only  told  to  thee  ; 
Say,  did  not  hopeless  love  intrude 
On  his  poor  bosom's  solitude  1 
Perhaps  on  thy  soft  lap  reclined, 
In  dreams  the  cruel  Fair  was  kind, 
That  more  intensely  he  might  know 
The  bitterness  of  waking  wo. 

Whate'er  those  pangs  from  me  conceal'd, 
To  thee  in  midnight  groans  reveal'd, 
They  stung  remembrance  to  despair ; 
«  A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear  1" 
Meanwhile  disease,  with  slow  decay, 
Moulder'd  his  feeble  frame  away  ; 
And  as  his  evening  sun  declined, 
The  shadows  deepen'd  o'er  his  mind. 
What  doubts  and  terrors  then  possess'd 
The  dark  dominion  of  his  breast ! 
How  did  delirious  fancy  dwell 
On  madness,  suicide,  and  hell  ! 
There  was  on  earth  no  power  to  save 
— But,  as  he  shudder'd  o'er  the  grave, 
He  saw  from  realms  of  light  descend 
The  friend  of  him  who  has  no  friend, 
Religion  ! — Her  almighty  breath 
Rebuked  the  winds  and  waves  of  death ; 
She  bade  the  storm  of  phrensy  cease, 
And  smiled  a  calm,  and  whisper'd  peace : 
Amidst  that  calm  of  sweet  repose, 
To  heaven  his  gentle  spirit  rose. 


FRIENDS. 

FHIKXD  after  friend  departs; 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts, 

That  finds  not  here  an  end ; 
Were  this  frail  world  our  only  rest, 
Living,  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  Time, 
Beyond  this  vale  of  death, 

There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 
Where  life  is  not  a  breath, 

Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 

Whose  sparks  fly  upward  to  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above, 

Where  parting  is  unknown — 

A  whole  eternity  of  lovo, 
Form'd  for  the  good  alone ; 

And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 

Translated  to  that  happier  sphere. 


Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  passed  away, — 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  and  perfect  day  : 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night, 
— 'They  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light. 


DISCOVERY   AND    CONQUEST    OF 
AMERICA. 

THEX  first  Columbus,  with  the  mighty  hand 
Of  grasping  genius,  weigh'd  the  sea  and  land ; 
The  floods  o'erbalanced  : — where  the  tide  of  light, 
Day  after  day,  roll'd  down  the  gulf  of  night, 
There  seern'd  one  waste  of  waters : — long  in  vain 
His  spirit  brooded  o'er  the  Atlantic  main ; 
When  sudden,  as  creation  burst  from  nought, 
Sprang  a  new  world  through  his  stupendousthought, 
Light,  order,  beauty  ! — While  his  mind  explored 
The  unveiling  mystery,  his  heart  adored; 
Where'er  sublime  imagination  trod, 
He  heard  the  voice,  he  saw  the  face,  of  God. 

The  winds  were  prosperous,  and  the  billows  bore 
The  brave  adventurer  to  the  promised  shore ; 
Far  in  the  west,  array 'd  in  purple  light, 
Dawn'd  the  new  world  on  his  enraptured  sight: 
Not  Adam,  loosen'd  from  the  encumbering  earth, 
Waked  by  the  breath  of  God  to  instant  birth, 
With  sweeter,  wilder  wonder  gazed  around, 
When  life  within,  and  light  without,  he  found  ; 
When,  all  creation  rushing  o'er  his  soul,    [whole. 
He   seem'd   to  live  and   breathe  throughout  the 
So  felt  Columbus,  when,  divinely  fair, 
At  the  last  look  of  resolute  despair, 
The  Hesperian  isles,  from  distance  dimly  blue, 
With  gradual  beauty  open'd  on  his  view. 
In  that  proud  moment,  his  transported  mind 
The  morning  and  the  evening  worlds  combined, 
And  made  the  sea,  that  sunder'd  them  before, 
A  bond  of  peace,  uniting  shore  to  shore. 

Vain,  visionary  hope  !  rapacious  Spain 
Follow'd  her  hero's  triumph  o'er  the  main, 
Her  hardy  sons  in  fields  of  battle  tried, 
Where  Moor  and  Christian  desperately  died. 
A  rabid  race,  fanatically  bold, 
And  steel'd  to  cruelty  by  lust  of  gold, 
Traversed  the  waves,  the  unknown  world  explored, 
The  cross  their  standard,  but  their  faith  the  sword  ; 
Their  steps  were  graves;    o'er  prostrate  realms 
they  trod ;  [God. 

They  worshipp'd  Mammon  while  they  vow'd  to 

Let  nobler  bards  in  loftier  numbers  tell 
How  Cortez  conquer'd,  Montezuma  fell ; 
How  fierce  Pizarro's  ruffian  arm  o'erthrew 
The  sun's  resplendent  empire  in  Peru ; 
How,  like  a  prophet,  old  Las  Casas  stood, 
And  raised  his  voice  against  a  sea  of  blood, 
Whose  chilling  waves  recoil'd,  while  he  foretold 
His  country's  ruin  by  avenging  gold. 
— That  gold,  for  which  unpitied  Indians  fell, 
That  gold,  at  once  the  snare  and  scourge  of  hell, 
Thenceforth  by  righteous  Heaven  was  doom'd  to 
Unmingled  curses  on  the  spoiler's  head;         [shed 
For  gold  the  Spaniard  cast  his  soul  away — 
His  gold  and  he  were  every  nation's  prey. 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


77 


YOUTH  RENEWED. 

SPRING-FLOWERS,  spring-birds,  spring-breezes 

Are  felt,  and  heard,  and  seen ; 
Light  trembling  transport  seizes 

My  heart, — with  sighs  between  : 
These  old  enchantments  fill  the  mind 
With  scenes  and  seasons  far  behind  ; 
Childhood,  its  smiles  and  tears, 
Youth,  with  its  flush  of  years, 
Its  morning-clouds  and  dewy  prime, 
More  exquisitely  touch'd  by  Time. 

Fancies  again  are  springing, 

Like  May-flowers  in  the  vales ; 
While  hopes,  long  lost,  are  singing, 

From  thorns,  like  nightingales  ; 
And  kindly  spirits  stir  my  blood, 
Like  vernal  airs,  that  curl  the  flood  : 
There  falls  to  manhood's  lot 
A  joy,  which  youth  has  not. 
A  dream  more  beautiful  than  truth, 
— Returning  Spring,  renewing  Youth. 

Thus  sweetly  to  surrender 

The  present  for  the  past ; 
In  sprightly  mood,  yet  tender, 

Life's  burden  down  to  cast, 
— This  is  to  taste,  from  stage  to  stage, 
Youth  on  the  lees  refined  by  age  : 
Like  wine  well  kept  and  long, 
Heady,  not  harsh,  nor  strong, 
With  every  annual  cup,  is  quafF'd 
A  richer,  purer,  mellower  draught. 


THE  COMMON  LOT. 

ONCE  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

There  lived  a  Man : — and  WHO  WAS  HE  1 
— Mortal !  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 

That  Man  resembled  thee. 
Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown : 
His  name  has  perish'd  from  the  earth, 

This  truth  survives  alone : — 
That  joy  and  grief,  and  hope  and  fear, 

Alternate  triumph'd  in  his  breast : 
His  bliss  and  wo, — a  smile,  a  tear ! 

— Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 
The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb — 

The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall ; 
We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him 

For  these  are  felt  by  all. 
He  suffer'd, — but  his  pangs  are  o'er; 

Enjoy'd, — but  his  delights  are  fled; 
Had  friends, — his  friends  are  now  no  more ; 

And  foes, — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved, — but  whom  he  loved,  the  grave 
Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb, 

Oh  she  was  fair — but  naught  could  save 
Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen; 

Encounter' d  all  that  troubles  thee; 
He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been ; 

He  is — what  thou  shall  be. 


The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and  main, 

Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 

That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw, 
Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 

No  vestige  where  they  flew. 
The  annals  of  the  human  race, 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began 
Of  HIM  afford  no  other  trace 

Than  this, — THERE  LIVED  A  MAN  ! 


THE  STRANGER  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

A  POOR  wayfaring  man  of  grief 

Has  often  cross'd  me  on  my  way, 
Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief, 

That  I  could  never  answer,  "  Nay  :" 
I  had  not  power  to  ask  his  name, 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came, 
Yet  was  there  something  in  his  eye, 
That  won  my  love,  I  knew  not  why. 
Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 

He  enter'd ;  not  a  word  he  spake  ; — 
Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread  ; 

I  gave  him  all ;  he  blessed  it,  brake, 
And  ate, — but  gave  me  part  again  ; 
Mine  was  an  Angel's  portion  then, 
For  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 
That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 
I  spied  him,  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock  ;  his  strength  was  gone; 
The  heedless  water  mock'd  his  thirst, 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on ; 
I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up ; 
Thrice  from  the  stream  he  drain'd  my  cup, 
Dipt  and  return'd  it  running  o'er ; 
I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 

'Twas  night;  the  floods  were  out;  it  blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof; 
I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 

To  bid  him  welcome  to  my  roof; 
I  warm'd,  I  clothed,  I  cheer'd  my  guest, 
Laid  him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 
Then  made  the  hearth  my  bed,  and  seemM 
In  Eden's  garden  while  I  dream'd. 
Stript,  wounded,  beaten,  nigh  to  death, 

I  found  him  by  the  highway  side ; 
I  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his  breath, 

Revived  his  spirit,  and  supplied 
Wine,  oil,  refreshment;  he  was  heal'd  ; 
I  had  myself  a  wound  conceal'd  ; 
But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart, 
And  peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 
In  prison  I  saw  him  next,  condemn'd 

To  meet  a  traitor's  doom  at  morn  ; 
The  tide  of  lying  tongues  T  stemm'd, 

And  honour'd  him  midst  shame  and  scorn  : 
My  friendship's  utmost  zeal  to  try, 
He  ask'd,  if  I  for  him  would  die ; 
The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill, 
But  the  free  spirit  cried,  "  I  will." 
o2 


78 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


Then  in  a  moment  to  my  view 
The  stranger  darted  from  disguise, 

The  tokens  in  his  hands  I  knew, 
My  Saviour  stood  before  mine  eyes : 

He  spake  ;  and  my  poor  name  He  named  ; 

"  Of  me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed  : 

These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be ; 

Fear  not,  thou  didst  them  unto  Me." 


INCOGNITA. 

IMAGE  of  one,  who  lived  of  yore! 

Hail  to  that  lovely  mien, 
Once  quick  and  conscious ; — now  no  more 

On  land  or  ocean  seen  ! 
Were  all  earth's  breathing  forms  to  pass 
Before  me  in  Agrippa's  glass, 
Many  as  fair  as  thou  might  be, 
But  oh  !  not  one, — not  one  like  thee. 

Thou  art  no  child  of  fancy  ; — thou 

The  very  look  dost  wear, 
That  gave  enchantment  to  a  brow 

Wreath'd  with  luxuriant  hair ; 
Lips  of  morn  embathed  in  dew, 
And  eyes  of  evening's  starry  blue; 
Of  all  who  e'er  en  joy 'd  the  sun, 
Thou  art  the  image  of  but  one. 

And  who  was  she,  in  virgin  prime, 

And  May  of  womanhood, 
Whose  roses  here,  unpluck'd  by  time, 

In  shadowy  tints  have  stood; 
While  many  a  winter's  withering  blast 
Hath  o'er  the  dark  cold  chamber  pass'd, 
In  which  her  once-resplendent  form 
Slumber'd  to  dust  beneath  the  storm  1 

Of  gentle  blood ; — upon  her  birth 

Consenting  planets  smiled, 
And  she  had  seen  those  days  of  mirth, 

That  frolic  round  the  child ; 
To  bridal  bloom  her  strength  had  sprung, 
Behold  her  beautiful  and  young ! 
Lives  there  a  record,  which  hath  told, 
That  she  was  wedded,  widow'd,  old  1 

How  long  her  date,  'twere  vain  to  guess : 

The  pencil's  cunning  art 
Can  but  a  single  glance  express, 

One  motion  of  the  heart ; 
A  smile,  a  blush, — a  transient  grace 
Of  air,  and  attitude,  and  face — 
One  passion's  changing  colour  mix  ; 
One  moment's  flight  for  ages  fix. 

Her  joys  and  griefs,  alike  in  vain, 

Would  fancy  here  recall ; 
Her  throbs  of  ecstasy  or  pain 

Lull'd  in  oblivion  all ; 
With  her,  methinks,  life's  little  hour 
Pass'd  like  the  fragrance  of  a  flower, 
That  leaves  upon  the  vernal  wind 
Sweetness  we  ne'er  again  may  find. 

Where  dwelt  shel — Ask  yon  aged  tree, 
Whose  boughs  embower  the  lawn, 


Whether  the  birds'  wild  minstrelsy 

Awoke  her  here  at  dawn  ; 
Whether  beneath  its  youthful  shade, 
At  noon,  in  infancy  she  plav'd: 
— If  from  the  oak  no  answer  come, 
Of  her  all  oracles  are  dumb. 

The  dead  are  like  the  slars  by  day ; 

— Withdrawn  from  mortal  eye, 
But  not  extinct,  they  hold  their  way, 

In  glory  through  the  sky  : 
Spirits,  from  bondage  thus  set  free, 
Vanish  amidst  immensity, 
Where  human  thought,  like  human  sight, 
Fails  to  pursue  their  trackless  flight. 

Somewhere  within  created  space, 

Could  I  explore  that  round, 
In  bliss,  or  wo,  there  is  a  place, 

Where  she  might  still  be  found  ; 
And  oh  !  unless  those  eyes  deceive, 
I  may,  I  must,  I  will  believe, 
That  she,  whose  charms  so  meekly  glow, 
In  what  she  only  seem'd  below — 

An  angel  in  that  glorious  realm, 

Where  God  himself  is  king  ; 
— But  awe  and  fear,  that  overwhelm 

Presumption,  check  my  wing  ; 
Nor  dare  imagination  look 
Upon  the  symbols  of  that  book, 
Wherein  eternity  enrolls 
The  judgment  on  departed  souls. 

Of  her  of  whom  these  pictured  lines 

A  faint  resemblance  form  ; 
— Fair  as  the  second  rainbow  shines 

Aloof  amid  the  storm  ; 
Of  her  this  «  shadow  of  a  shade" 
Like  its  original  must  fade, 
And  she,  forgotten  when  unseen, 
Shall  be  as  if  she  ne'er  had  been. 

Ah  !  then,  perchance,  this  dreaming  strain, 

Of  all  that  e'er  I  sung, 
A  lorn  memorial  may  remain, 

When  silent  lies  my  tongue, 
When  shot  the  meteor  of  my  fame, 
Lost  the  vain  echo  of  my  name, 
This  leaf,  this  fallen  leaf,  may  be 
The  only  trace  of  her  and  me. 

With  one  who  lived  of  old,  my  song 

In  lowly  cadence  rose ; 
To  one  who  is  unborn,  belong 

The  accents  of  its  close  : 
Ages  to  come,  with  courteous  ear, 
Some  youth  my  warning  voice  may  hear  ; 
And  voices  from  the  dead  should  be 
The  warnings  of  eternity. 

When  these  weak  lines  thy  presence  greet, 

Reader  !  if  I  am  blest, 
Again,  as  spirits,  may  we  meet 

In  glory  and  in  rest : 
If  not, — and  I  have  lost  my  way, — 
Here  part  we  ; — go  not  thou  astray  ; 
No  tomb,  no  verse  my  story  tell ! 
Once,  and  for  ever,  fare  thee  well. 


0  K)  (D  (D)  (£  W  D 


JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


79 


SPEED  THE   PROW. 

NOT  the  ship  that  swiftest  saileth, 
But  which  longest  holds  her  way 

Onward,  onward,  never  faileth, 
Storm  and  calm,  to  win  the  day  ; 

Earliest  she  the  haven  gains, 

Which  the  hardest  stress  sustains. 

O'er  life's  ocean,  wide  and  pathless, 
Thus  would  I  with  patience  steer ; 

No  vain  hope  of  journeying  scathless, 
No  proud  boast  to  face  down  fear ; 

Dark  or  bright  his  Providence, 

Trust  in  God  be  my  defence. 

Time  there  was, — 't  is  so  no  longer, — 

When  I  crowded  every  sail, 
Battled  with  the  waves,  and  stronger 

Grew,  as  stronger  grew  the  gale  ; 
But  my  strength  sunk  with  the  wind, 
And  the  sea  lay  -dead  behind. 

There  my  bark  had  founder1  d  surely, 

But  a  power  invisible 
Breathed  upon  me  ; — then  securely, 

Borne  along  the  gradual  swell, 
Helm  and  shrouds,  and  heart  renew'd, 
I  my  humbler  course  pursued. 

Now,  though  evening  shadows  blacken, 
And  no  star  comes  through  the  gloom, 

On  I  move,  nor  will  I  slacken 

Sail,  though  verging  towards  the  tomb : 

Bright  beyond, — on  heaven's  high  strand, 

Lo,  the  lighthouse  ! — land,  land,  land  ! 

Cloud  and  sunshine,  wind  and  weather, 
Sense  and  sight  are  fleeing  fast ; 

Time  and  tide  must  fail  together, 
Life  and  death  will  soon  be  past ; 

But  where  day's  last  spark  declines, 

Glory  everlasting  shines. 


RECLUSE. 

A  FOUNTAIN  issuing  into  light 

Before  a  marble  palace,  threw 
To  heaven  its  column,  pure  and  bright, 

Returning  thence  in  showers  of  dew ; 
But  soon  a  humbler  course  it  took, 
And  glid  away  a  nameless  brook. 

Flowers  on  its  grassy  margin  sprang, 
Flies  o'er  its  eddying  surface  play'd, 

Birds  midst  the  alder-branches  sang, 

Flocks  through  the  verdant  meadows  stray 'd 

The  weary  there  lay  down  to  rest, 

And  there  the  halcyon  built  her  nest. 

'Twas  beautiful,  to  stand  and  watch 
The  fountain's  crystal  turn  to  gems, 

And  from  the  sky  such  colours  thatch, 
As  if  't  were  raining  diadems  ; 

Yet  all  was  cold  and  curious  art, 

That  charm'd  the  eye,  but  rniss'd  the  heart. 


Dearer  to  me  the  little  stream, 

Whose  unimprison'd  waters  run, 
Wild  as  the  changes  of  a  dream, 

By  rock  and  glen,  through  shade  arid  sun ; 
Its  lovely  links  had  power  to  bind 
In  welcome  chains  my  wandering  mind. 

So  thought  I,  when  I  saw  the  face, 

By  happy  portraiture  reveal'd, 
Of  one,  adorn'd  with  every  grace, 

— Her  name  and  date  from  me  conceal'd, 
But  not  her  story  ; — she  had  been 
The  pride  of  many  a  splendid  scene. 

She  cast  her  glory  round  a  court, 

And  frolic'd  in  the  gayest  ring, 
Where  fashion's  high-born  minions  sport, 

Like  sparkling  fire-flies  on  the  wing  ; 
But  thence,  when  love  had  touch'd  her  soul, 
To  nature  and  to  truth  she  stole. 

From  din,  and  pageantry,  and  strife, 

Midst  woods  and  mountains,  vales  and  plains, 

She  treads  the  paths  of  lowly  life, 
Yet  in  a  bosom-circle  .reigns, 

No  fountain  scattering  diamond  showers, 

But  the  sweet  streamlet  watering  flowers. 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed, 

At  eve  hold  not  thine  hand  ; 
To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed, 
Broad-cast  it  o'er  the  land. 

Beside  all  waters  sow, 

The  highway  furrows  stock, 

Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow, 
Scatter  it  on  the  rock. 

The  good,  the  fruitful  ground, 
Expect  not  here  nor  there  ; 

O'er  hill  and  dale,  by  plots,  't  is  found  ; 
Go  forth,  then,  everywhere. 

Thou  know'st  not  which  may  thrive, 

The  late  or  early  sown  ; 
Grace  keeps  the  precious  germs  alive, 

When  and  wherever  strown. 

And  duly  shall  appear, 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strength, 

The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ear, 
And  the  full  corn  at  length. 

Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain  ; 

Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain, 

For  garners  in  the  sky. 

Thence,  when  the  glorious  end, 

The  day  of  God  is  come, 
The  angel-reapers  shall  descend, 

And  heaven  cry — "  Harvest  home.' 


JAMES    HOGG. 


THE  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  born  in  Selkirk- 
shire in  Scotland,  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  Jan- 
uary, 1772.  His  forefathers  for  five  centuries 
had  pursued  the  same  humble  calling  among 
the  solitudes  of  the  Ettrick  and  the  Yarrow, 
and  when  but  seven  years  of  age,  the  destined 
poet  was  compelled  to  earn  his  own  bread  by 
herding  the  cows  of  a  neighbouring  farmer. 
He  had  therefore  no  opportunity  to  acquire  the 
ordinary  education  of  the  Scottish  peasant. 
Of  all  the  bards  of  his  country,  he  was  the 
only  one  really  self-instructed.  BURNS,  com- 
pared with  HOGG,  had  the  accomplishments  of 
a  gentleman.  He  was  taught  to  read,  and  he 
wrote  a  clear  hand.  But  the  subject  of  our 
biography,  was  in  his  twentieth  year  before  he 
learned  the  alphabet.  Knowing  by  rote  the 
words  of  ballads  he  had  heard  his  mother  sing, 
in  his  long  leisure  on  the  hills  he  compared 
them  with  the  printed  pages,  and  by  such 
slow  process,  advanced  until  "  the  hardest 
Scripture  names  could  scarcely  daunt  him." 
The  rough  but  forcible  stanzas  beginning 

"  My  name  is  Donald  M  Donild, 
I  live  in  the  Highlands  sae  grand," 

were  sung  throughout  the  empire  before  their 
author  could  distinguish  a  printed  copy  of 
them  from  a  leaf  of  Blackstone.  About  the 
year  1802,  he  went  to  Edinburgh  with  a  flock 
of  sheep,  for  the  disposal  of  which  he  was 
obliged  to  wait  a  few  days  in  town.  He  could 
now  write  ;  he  had  acquired  some  local  reputa- 
tion by  his  traditionary  songs  and  ballads ;  and 
he  determined  to  have  a  small  volume  of  them 
printed.  He  succeeded  ;  the  collection,  which 
in  his  memoirs  he  declares  was  "  extraordinar' 
stupit,"  attracted  the  attention  of  SCOTT  and 
others  in  the  metropolis,  and  increased  the 
consideration  with  which  the  shepherd  was 
regarded  by  his  class.  It  was  not  successful 
in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view  ;  but  he  was 
ambitious  and  undaunted  ;  he  soon  had  ready 
a  second  volume,  for  which  Constable  paid 
him  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  and  with  this 
amount,  and  another  hundred  received  for  a 
treatise  on  the  management  of  sheep,  he 
deemed  himself  a  rich  man.  He  unwisely 
FO 


settled  as  a  tenant  on  a  large  farm ;  in  three 
years  was  penniless,  and  went  to  Edinburgh 
to  pursue  the  business  of  authorship.  His 
first  attempt  was  an  unsalable  book  of  verses  ; 
his  second  a  weekly  newspaper,  which  was 
sustained  for  more  than  a  year ;  and  when 
they  failed,  and  his  town  friends  began  to 
desert  him,  he  retired  to  a  quiet  old  house 
in  the  suburbs,  and  wrote  "  The  Queen's 
Wake,"  which  surprised  his  acquaintances, 
and  established  on  a  firm  basis  his  reputation 
as  a  poet.  Removing  once  more  into  the 
denser  portion  of  the  city,  he  took  up  his 
quarters  at  the  little  tavern  made  famous  after- 
ward as  the  scene  of  the  "Noctes  Ambrosia- 
nae,"  where  he  continued  to  reside  for  many 
years.  He  wrote  the  "  Witch  of  Fife," 
"  Queen  Hynde,"  "  Mador  of  the  Moor,"  the 
"Pilgrims  of  the  Sun,"  and  other  poems, 
and  several  volumes  of  tales  and  sketches,  of 
various  merit,  besides  his  contributions  to 
"  Blackwood's  Magazine,"  of  which  he  was 
one  of  the  principal  founders. 

This  world-renowned  periodical  had  been 
established  by  THOMAS  PRINGLE  and  a  Mr. 
CLEGHORN,  who,  disagreeing  with  the  pub- 
lisher, set  up  a  rival  under  the  auspices  of 
Constable.  Black  wood  engaged  WILSON, 
HOGG,  and  a  few  other  writers,  and  continued 
his  miscellany  with  such  spirit  and  ability, 
that  it  soon  acquired  a  vast  circulation.  The 
"  Noctes  Ambrosianae,"  constituted  the  most 
remarkable  series  of  papers  ever  printed  in  a 
periodical,  and  instead  of  being  merely  in- 
vented, as  may  have  been  supposed,  were  for 
a  considerable  period  adaptations  of  what 
actually  took  place  at  HOGG'S  lodgings. 

Among  the  Shepherd's  various  literary  pro- 
ductions not  before  mentioned,  Avere  a  com- 
pilation of  "  Jacobite  Relics,"  and  two  novels 
entitled  "The  Three  Perils  of  Man,"  and 
"The  Three  Perils  of  Woman,"  published  by 
Longman,  for  which  the  author  received  some 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

HOGG  was  married  in  1823,  and  embarking 
soon  afterward  in  too  extensive  farming  ope- 
rations, he  lost  the  money  he  fiad  acquired  by 


JAMES    HOGG. 


81 


his  literary  labours.  He  laughed  at  misfor- 
tunes while  he  alone  was  a  sufferer,  but  he 
could  ill  bear  the  presence  of  poverty  in  the 
home  of  his  family.  He  visited  London  in 
1833,  for  the  first  and  only  time,  and  like  every 
stranger  of  distinction  was  cordially  welcomed 
in  the  higher  circles  as  well  as  by  all  literary 
men;  but  he  returned  even  poorer  than  he 
went,  and  at  the  end  of  two  years, — on  the 
twenty-first  of  November,  1835, — he  died. 

He  was  a  frank,  generous,  simple-hearted 
man  ;  vain,  indeed,  of  his  abilities,  but  never 
unwilling  to  recognise  genius  in  others. 


When  SOUTHEY  visited  Scotland  in  1820,  he 
remarked  to  Mr.  TELFORD,  his  companion, 
that  there  was  "  one  distinguished  individual 
whom  he  would  wish  to  see  again — the 
Ettrick  Shepherd,  who,"  said  he,  "  is  alto- 
gether an  extraordinary  being,  a  character 
such  as  will  not  appear  twice  in  five  centuries, 
and  differing  most  remarkably  from  BURNS 
and  all  other  self-taught  writers."  He  ad- 
mired "his  peculiar  and  innate  power,  of 
which  there  are  ample  evidences  in  all  his 
poetical  works,  however  defective  they  may 
be  as  to  the  accomplishment  of  art." 


KILMENY. 


KILMENT  gaed  up  the  glen  ; 
But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira's  men, 
Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing, 
And  pu'  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring; 
The  scarlet  hypp  and  the  hindberrye, 
And  the  nut  that  hangs  frae  the  hazel-tree  : 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o'er  the  wa', 
And  lang  may  she  seek  i'  the  green-wood  shaw  ; 
Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 
And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  hame 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 
When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead, 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny  's  soul  had  been  sung, 
When  the  bedes-man  had  pray'd,  and  the  deadbell 

rung, 

Late,  late  in  a  gloamin,  when  all  was  still, 
When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin  hill, 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i'  the  wane, 
The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain, 
Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane  • 
When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  leme, 
Late,  late  in  the  gloaming  Kilmeny  came  hame  ! 

"  Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ] 
Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  dean  ; 
By  linn,  by  ford,  and  green-wood  tree, 
Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  gat  you  that  joup  o'  the  lily  sheen  1 
That  bonny  snood  of  the  birk  sac  green  1 
And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  were  seen  1 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been?" 

Kilmeny  look'd  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 
But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face  ; 
As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  ee, 
As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant  lea, 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  sea. 
For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where, 
And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not  declare  ; 
Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew, 
Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never 

blew. 

But  it  seem'd  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had  rung, 
And  the  airs  of  heaven  play'd  round  her  tongue, 
11 


When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had  seen, 

And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been  ; 

A  land  of  love,  and  a  land  of  light, 

Withouten  sun,  or  moon,  or  night: 

Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream, 

And  the  light  a  pure  celestial  beam : 

The  land  of  vision  it  would  seem, 

A  still,  an  everlasting  dream 

And  oh,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 
But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  ee  ! 
Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 
For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there  ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maiden's  een 
In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 
Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower, 
And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower; 
And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melody e, 
That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 
But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 
And  keep'd  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men : 
Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing, 
To  suck  the  flowers,  and  drink  the  spring. 
But,  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appear'd, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  were  cheer'd ; 
The  wolf  play'd  blithely  round  the  field, 
The  lordly  bison  low'd  and  kneel'd ; 
The  dun  deer  woo'd  with  manner  bland, 
And  cower'd  aneath  her  lily  hand. 
And  when  at  even  the  woodlands  rung, 
When  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  sung 
In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 
Oh,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion. 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 
Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tame, 
And  goved  around  charm'd  and  amazed  ; 
Even  the  dull  cattle  croon'd  and  gazed, 
And  murmur' d  and  look'd  with  anxious  pain 
For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 
The  buzzard  came  with  the  thristle-cock  ; 
The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock ; 
The  blackbird  alang  wi'  the  eagle  flew  ; 
The  hind  came  tripping  o'er  the  dew  ; 
The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began, 
And  the  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and  the  leveret  ran ; 
The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung, 
And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  forhooy'd  their  young; 
And  all  in  a  peaceful  ring  were  hurl'd  : 
It  was  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world  ! 


82 


JAMES    HOGG. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

Now  lock  my  chamber-door,  father, 

And  say  you  left  me  sleeping ; 
But  never  tell  my  step-mother 

Of  all  this  bitter  weeping. 
No  earthly  sleep  can  ease  my  smart, 

Or  even  awhile  reprieve  it ; 
For  there  's  a  pang  at  my  young  heart 

That  never  more  can  leave  it ! 

Oh,  let  me  lie,  and  weep  my  fill 

O'er  wounds  that  heal  can  never ; 
And  oh,  kind  Heaven !  were  it  thy  will, 

To  close  these  eyes  for  ever . 
For  how  can  maid's  affections  dear 

Recall  her  love  unshaken  1 
Or  how  can  heart  of  maiden  bear 

To  know  that  heart  forsaken  1 

Oh,  why  should  vows  so  fondly  made, 

Be  broken  ere  the  morrow — 
To  one  who  loved  as  never  maid 

Loved  in  this  world  of  sorrow  ! 
The  look  of  scorn  I  cannot  brave, 

Nor  pity's  eye  more  dreary  ; 
A  quiet  sleep  within  the  grave 

Is  all  for  which  I  weary  ! 

Farewell,  dear  Yarrow's  mountains  green, 

And  banks  of  broom  so  yellow  ! 
Too  happy  has  this  bosom  been 

Within  your  arbours  mellow. 
That  happiness  is  fled  for  ay, 

And  all  is  dark  desponding — 
Save  in  the  opening  gates  of  day, 

And  the  dear  home  beyond  them  ! 


THE  SKYLARK. 

BIRD  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 
Oh  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying] 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 
O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 

O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day, 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 
Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing  away  ! 
Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 
Low  in  the  heather  blooms 


Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place, — 

Oh  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 


QJUEEN  MARY'S  RETURN   TO  SCOT 
LAND. 

AFTER  a  youth  by  woes  o'ercast, 
After  a  thousand  sorrows  past, 
The  lovely  Mary  once  again 
Set  foot  upon  her  native  plain ; 
Knelt  on  the  pier  with  modest  grace, 
And  turn'd  to  heaven  her  beauteous  face. 
'T  was  then  the  caps  in  air  were  blended, 
A  thousand  thousand  shouts  ascended, 
Shiver'd  the  breeze  around  the  throng, 
Gray  barrier  cliffs  the  peals  prolong ; 
And  every  tongue  gave  thanks  to  heaven, 
That  Mary  to  their  hopes  was  given. 

Her  comely  form  and  graceful  mien 

Bespoke  the  lady  and  the  queen ; 

The  woes  of  one  so  fair  and  young 

Moved  every  heart  and  every  tongue. 

Driven  from  her  home,  a  helpless  child, 

To  brave  the  winds  and  billows  wild ; 

An  exile  bred  in  realms  afar, 

Amid  commotions,  broils,  and  war. 

In  one  short  year,  her  hopes  all  cross'd — 

A  parent,  husband,  kingdom,  lost ! 

And  all  ere  eighteen  years  had  shed 

Their  honours  o'er  her  royal  head. 

For  such  a  queen,  the  Stuarts'  heir — 

A  queen  so  courteous,  young,  and  fair — 

Who  would  not  every  foe  defy  1 

Who  would  not  stand — who  would  not  die  1 

Light  on  her  airy  steed  she  sprung, 

Around  with  golden  tassels  hung  ; 

No  chieftain  there  rode  half  so  free, 

Or  half  so  light  and  gracefully. 

How  sweet  to  see  her  ringlets  pale 

Wide  waving  in  the  southland  gale, 

Which  through  the  broom-wood  blossoms  flew, 

To  fan  her  cheeks  of  rosy  hue  ! 

Whene'er  it  heaved  her  bosom's  screen, 

What  beauties  in  her  form  were  seen ! 

And  when  her  courser's  mane  it  swung, 

A  thousand  silver  bells  were  rung. 

A  sight  so  fair,  on  Scottish  plain, 

A  Scot  shall  never  see  again  ! 

When  Mary  turn'd  her  wond'ring  eyes 
On  rocks  that  seem'd  to  prop  the  skies  ; 
On  palace,  park,  and  battled  pile  ; 
On  lake,  on  river,  sea,  and  isle  ; 
O'er  woods  and  meadows  bathed  in  dew, 
To  distant  mountains  wild  and  blue ; 
She  thought  the  isle  that  gave  her  birth, 
The  sweetest,  wildest  land  on  earth. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


COLERIDGE  was  perhaps  the  most  wonderful 
genius  of  the  nineteenth  century.  His  mind 
was  essentially  philosophical,  in  the  highest 
sense  of  the  word.  In  all  his  studies,  and  in 
all  his  teachings,  he  fastened  upon  the  leading 
principles  involved  in  his  subject,  and  traced 
them  with  a  logical  power  and  a  metaphysical 
skill  seldom  equalled  in  any  age.  Doubtless, 
his  most  enduring  claim  to  the  gratitude  and 
recollection  of  the  world  grows  out  of  his 
agency  in  first  making  the  English  mind  ac- 
quainted with  the  spiritual  philosophy  which 
has  since  his  day,  and  in  a  great  degree  through 
his  efforts,  entirely  supplanted  the  sensuous 
system  of  LOCKE  and  other  materialists.  But 
it  is  only  with  his  life  and  poetry  that  we  are 
now  concerned. 

He  was  born  on  the  twentieth  of  October, 
1773,  at  Ottery  St.  Mary's,  in  Devonshire,  and 
was  the  youngest  of  eleven  children.  His  father 
was  a  clergyman  of  sound  learning  and  ability. 
At  school,  young  COLERIDGE  was  the  wonder 
and  delight  of  all  who  knew  him.  Even  in 
boyhood  he  was  famous  for  his  wonderful 
acquirements,  and  still  more  for  those  remark- 
able powers  of  conversation  which  gained  for 
him  from  his  school-fellow,  the  inimitable 
CHARLES  LAMB,  the  name  of  the  "  inspired 
charity  boy."  He  was  from  the  earliest  age 
extremely  fond  of  philosophical  and  theologi- 
cal discussions  ;  and  he  pursued  his  studies 
with  so  much  ardour  that  he  became  by  far 
the  best  scholar  in  the  school.  In  1791  he 
was  entered  at  Jesus  College,  Cambridge, 
which  he  left,  however,  without  taking  his 
degree.  In  a  thoughtless  mood  he  enlisted  in 
the  army,  and  astonished  his  fellow-soldiers 
by  learned  and  eloquent  lectures  on  Greek 
verse  and  Greek  philosophy ;  and  his  careless 
display  of  his  learning  led  to  his  discharge 
from  the  service  and  his  restoration  to  his 
friends.  In  1794  he  published  a  small  vo- 
lume of  poems,  which  included  also  some  by 
WORDSWORTH.  In  common  with  many  of  the 
most  gifted  and  enthusiastic  young  men  of 
the  time,  he  became  greatly  interested  in  the 
French  revolution,  then  in  progress,  and  de- 
livered lectures  at  Bristol  on  human  rights  and 


kindred  topics  involved  in  the  events  of  the 
time.  His  views  then  were  extremely  radi- 
cal, and  were  soon  after  entirely  rejected  as 
the  offspring  of  heated,  unthinking  enthusi- 
asm. In  1795  he  married,  and  in  1798  went 
to  Germany,  where  he  spent  some  time  in 
making  himself  familiar  with  the  language 
and  philosophical  literature  of  that  land  of 
scholars.  In  1800  he  returned  to  England, 
and  became  a  firm  and  consistent  Christian, 
maintaining  the  doctrines  of  the  evangelical 
churches,  and  devoting  a  great  portion  of  his 
thoughts  to  the  evolution  of  a  system  which 
should  reconcile  Philosophy  and  Christianity. 
Its  great  leading  principles  are  scattered 
throughout  his  works ;  but  he  did  not  live  to 
combine  them  into  a  regular  system,  or  to  set 
them  forth  as  clearly  and  connectedly  as  he 
designed  to  do.  For  a  time,  and  for  lack 
of  other  employment,  he  wrote  leading  arti- 
cles for  the  "London  Morning  Post;"  and  he 
passed  the  last  nineteen  years  of  his  life  in 
the  family  of  his  ardent  and  devoted  friend, 
Dr.  GILMAN,  of  High  gate."  He  was  afflicted 
for  a  long  period  with  most  severe  and  painful 
illness,  which  would  have  crushed  the  mental 
power  of  inferior  men ;  but  through  it  all  he 
laboured  incessantly,  and  without  "abating 
one  jot  of  heart  or  hope."  He  had  a  large 
circle  of  friends,  among  whom  were  some  of 
his  most  gifted  cotemporaries,  who  regarded 
him  with  a  reverence  seldom  accorded  to  any 
man  :  and  he  was  in  their  midst  a  philosophic 
teacher,  expounding  the  highest  truths  with 
an  eloquence  and  persuasive  beauty  which 
PLATO  might  have  envied.  His  conversation 
is  universally  acknowledged  to  have  been  of 
the  most  wonderful  character.  To  a  scholar- 
ship surpassing  that  of  nearly  all  the  men  of 
his  age,  he  added  an  attractive  manner  and  a 
musical  voice;  and  those  who  were  in  the 
habit  of  hearing  him,  have  spoken  of  the  na- 
ture and  effect  of  his  conversation,  in  terms 
which  seem  wild  and  extravagant,  but  which 
we  have  every  reason  to  believe  fall  short  of 
the  truth. 

Many  critics   have  spoken  of   COLERIDGE 
as  having  promised  much  and  accomplished 

83 


84 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 


little.  Bat  whether  we  look  at  the  actual 
number  of  works  he  wrote,  at  the  profound 
and  weighty  character  of  his  productions,  or 
at  the  influence  he  exerted  upon  the  world, 
he  will  be  found  to  have  done  more  than  any 
of  his  cotemporaries.  His  prose  writings 
occupy  some  eight  or  ten  large  volumes,  and 
contain  more  thought  than  twice  the  number 
of  the  works  of  any  of  his  fellows.  They 
constitute  a  perfect  treasure  of  philosophical 
truth ;  and  we  know  of  no  books  in  the  lan- 
guage better  adapted  to  implant  the  seeds  of 
true  and  noble  character  in  the  heart  than  his. 
His  poems  are  comprised  in  three  volumes, 
and  contain  some  of  the  most  exquisitely 
beautiful  productions  which  an  age  prolific  in 
great  poets  has  produced.  They  all  exhibit 
a  wonderfully  gorgeous  and  powerful  imagi- 
nation, and  a  perfect  command  of  language 
and  its  harmonies.  His  taste  was  most  ex- 
quisite, and  his  knowledge  of  the  spiritual, 
in  man  and  in  nature,  clear  and  calm.  He 


was  greatly  in  the  habit  of  blending  philoso- 
phy with  poetry,  and  the  tragedy  of  "  Re- 
morse" is  a  most  admirable  philosophical 
development  of  his  conception  of  the  nature 
of  conscience,  as  well  as  a  powerful  produc- 
tion of  the  imagination  and  the  poetic  faculty. 
The  life  of  COLERIDGE  is  uniformly  de- 
scribed as  having  been  adorned  by  the  sweet- 
est temper  and  all  the  social ,  virtues.  The 
late  distinguished  WASHINGTON  ALLSTON,  who 
was  for  a  considerable  period  his  intimate  as- 
sociate, declared  his  disposition  to  be  angelic. 
He  was  a  close  and  ardent  friend,  a  profound 
scholar,  and  in  every  respect  a  great  and  good 
man.  "  Poetry,"  he  said,  "  has  been  to  me 
4  its  own  exceeding  great  reward :'  it  has 
soothed  my  afflictions ;  it  has  multiplied  and 
refined  my  enjoyments;  it  has  endeared  soli- 
tude ;  and  it  has  given  me  the  habit  of  wishing 
to  discover  the  good  and  the  beautiful  in  all 
that  meets  and  surrounds  me."  He  died  on 
the  twenty-third  of  July,  1834. 


DEJECTION. 

WELL  ! — if  the  bard  was  weather-wise,  who  made 
The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go  hence 

Unroused  by  winds  that  ply  a  busier  trade 

Than  those  which  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy  flakes, — 

Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft  that  moans  and  rakes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  Eolian  lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute  ! 
For  lo  !  the  new  moon,  winter-bright ! 
And,  overspread  with  phantom-light, 
(With  swimming  phantom-light  o'erspread, 
But  rimm'd  and  circled  by  a  silver  thread,) 

I  see  the  old  moon  in  her  lap — foretelling 
The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 

And  oh !  that  even  now  the  gust  were  swelling, 
And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud  and  fast! 

Those  sounds — which  oft  have  raised  me,  whilst 

they  awed, 
And  sent  my  soul  abroad, — 

Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse  give, 

Might  startle  this  dull  pain — and  make  it  move 
and  live ! 

A  grief  without  a  pang — void,  dark,  and  drear — 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassion'd  grief, 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear : — 

Oh,  lady  !  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, — 

To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  woo'd, 
All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, — 

Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky, 
And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow-green ; 

And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye ! 

And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and  bars, 

That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars — 


Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  between, 

Now  sparkling,  now  bedimm'd,  but  always  seen — 

Yon  crescent  moon,  as  fix'd  as  if  it  grew 

In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue — 

I  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

I  see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are  ! 

My  genial  spirits  fail  ! 

And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  ofF  my  breast  ? 

It  were  a  vain  endeavour, 

Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west : — 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The    passion    and  the  life,  whose  fountains   are 

within  ! 

Oh,  lady  !  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live : — 
Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud ! 
And  would  we  aught  behold  of  higher  worth 
Than  that  inanimate,  cold  world,  allow'd   . 
To  the  poor,  loveless,  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 
Oh,  pure  of  heart !  thou  needest  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be  : — 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power. 

Joy,  virtuous  lady  ! — joy,  that  ne'er  was  given 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour, — 
Life,    and    life's   effluence — cloud    at    once    and 
shower, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


85 


Joy,  lady  !  is  the  spirit  and  the  power 

Which  wedding  nature  to  us  gives  in  dower, — 

A  new  earth  and  new  heaven, 
Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  joy  the  luminous  cloud — 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice  ! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight, — 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 
All  colours  a  suiFusion  from  that  light ! 
There  was  a  time  when,  though  my  path  was  rough, 

This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress ; 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 

Whence  fancy  made  me  dreams  of  happiness. 
For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  twining  vine ; 
And  fruits,  and  foliage,  not  my  own,  seem'd  mine, 
But  now,  afflictions  bow  me  down  to  earth: 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth ; 

But  oh  !  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth, — 

My  shaping  spirit  of  imagination  ! 
For,  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must  feel, 

But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can, — 
And,  haply,  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 

From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man, — 

This  was  my  sole  resource — my  only  plan : 

Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the  whole, 

And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  my  soul. 

Hence !  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my  mind, — 

Reality's  dark  dream  ! 
I  turn  from  you  ;  and  listen  to  the  wind, 

Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.  What  a  scream 
Of  agony,  by  torture  lengthen'd  out,  [without, — 
That  lute  sent  forth!  Thou  wind,  that  ravest 

Bare  crag,  or  mountain-tarn,  or  blasted  tree, 
Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb, 
Or  lonely  house  long  held  the  witches'  home, 
Methinks,  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee ! 
Mad  lutanist !  who,  in  this  month  of  showers, 
Of  dark-brown  gardens  and  of  peeping  flowers, 
Makest  devils'  yule,  with  worse  than  wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves  among ! 

Thou  actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds ! 
Thou  mighty  poet,  e'en  to  frenzy  bold  ! 
What  teli'st  thou  now  about1? — 
'T  is  of  the  rushing  of  a  host  in  rout, 
With  groans  of  trampled  men,  with  smarting 

wounds — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain  and  shudder  with 

the  cold  ! 
But  hush  !  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest  silence  ! 

And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing  crowd, 
With  groans,  and  tremulous  shudderings — all  is 

over! 

It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep  and 
A  tale  of  less  affright,  [loud  ; — 

And  temper'd  with  delight, 
As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay : — 
'f  is  of  a  little  child, 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 

Not  far  from  home — but  she  had  lost  her  way  ; 
And  now,  moans  low,  in  bitter  grief  and  fear, 
And  now,  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her 

mother  hear ! 

'Tis  midnight ! — but  small  thoughts  have  I  of  sleep. 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils  keep  ! 


Visit  her,  gentle  sleep  !  with  wings  of  healing ! 

And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain-birth  ! 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her  dwelling, 

Silent  as  though  they  watch 'd  the  sleeping  earth ! 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, — 

Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice  ! 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to  pole, — 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul ! 

Oh,  simple  spirit !  guided  from  above. — 
Dear  lady  ! — friend  devoutest  of  my  choice, — 
Thus  mayst  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice  ! 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

VERSE,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying, 

Where  hope  clung  feeding  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine  !     Life  went  a-maying, 

With  nature,  hope  and  poesy, 

When  I  was  young  ! 
When  I  was  young? — Ah,  woful  when  ! 
Ah,  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then  ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, — 

This  body  that  docs  me  grievous  wrong, — 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 

How  lightly  then  it  flash'd  along ! — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 

On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 

That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide, — 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in 't,  together ! 
Flowers  are  lovely — love  is  flower-like ; 

Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; — 
Oh  !  the  joys  that  came  down,  shower-like, 

Of  friendship,  love  and  liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 
Ere  I  was  old  ] — Ah,  woful  ere, 

Which  tells  me.  Youth's  no  longer  here  ! 
Oh,  Youth !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 

'Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be — that  thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd  : — 

And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 

To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  1 
I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 

This  drooping  gait,  this  alter'd  size ; — 
But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 

And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes ! 
Life  is  but  thought : — so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  housemates  still ! 
Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 

But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve  ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 

That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 
When  we  are  old  ! 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking  leave, — 
Like  some  poor,  nigh-related  guest, 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismiss'd, 
Yet  hath  outstay'd  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest — without  the  smile  ! 
H 


86 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

IN     SEVEN     PARTS 

PART   I. 
IT  is  an  ancient  mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 
«  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  1 

"  The  bridegroom's  doors  are  open'd  wide, 

And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set ; 

May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand  : 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 
"  Hold  off!  unhand  me,  greybeard  loon  !" 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 

The  wedding-guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  year's  child: 

The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone  ; 

He  cannot  chuse  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  mariner. 

"  The  ship  was  cheer'd,  the  harbour  clear'd, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  light-house  top. 

«  The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he ; 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"  Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon" — 
The  wedding-guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 

Red  as  a  rose  is  she ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 

The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  chuse  but  hear ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner. 

"  And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong : 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  winds, 

And  chased  us  south  along. 

"  With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roar'd  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

"  And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 

And  it  grew  wonderous  cold : 
And  ioo,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 

As  green  as  emerald. 


"  And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clift 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  : 

Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken—- 
The ice  was  all  between. 

"  The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around: 
It  crack'd  and  growl'd,  and  roar'd  and  howl'd, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 

"  At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross ; 

Through  the  fog  it  came ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 

We  hail'd  it  in  God's  name. 

« It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 

And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 

The  helmsman  steer'd  us  through  ! 

«  And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind  ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 

"  In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perch'd  for  vespers  nine  ; 
Whilst  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmer'd  the  white  moonshine." 

"  God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner  ! 

From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus  ! — 
Why  look'st  thou  so?" — "With  my  cross-bow 

I  shot  the  Albatross !" 

PART   II. 

«  THE  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right  : 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 

But  no 'sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 

Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo  ! 

»  And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 
For  all  averr'd  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 
Ah,  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

«  Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  sun  uprist: 
They  all  averr'd  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 
'T  was  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

«  The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  stream'd  off  free : 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

"Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 

'T  was  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea  ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


87 


«  All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 

The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 

No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

"  Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion, 

As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

"  Water,  water,  every  where, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  ; 

Water,  water,  every  where, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

«  The  very  deep  did  rot  :  O  Christ  ! 

That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 

Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

"  About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 

Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

"  And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  : 

Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  follow'd  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

"  And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 

Was  wither'd  at  the  root  ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 

We  had  been  choak'd  with  soot. 

"Ah!  well-a-day  !  what  evil  looks 

Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 

About  my  neck  was  hung." 

PART  III. 


pass'd  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 
Was  parch'd,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye  ! 

When,  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

"  At  first  it  seem'd  a  little  speck, 

And  then  it  seem'd  a  mist  : 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 

A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

"  A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist  ! 

And  still  it  near'd  and  near'd  : 
And  as  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 

It  plunged  and  tack'd  and  veer'd. 

"  With  throat  unslack'd,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  not  laugh  nor  wail  ; 
Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood! 
I  bit  my  arm,  I  suck'd  the  blood, 

And  cried,  A  sail  !   a  sail  ! 

"  With  throat  unslack'd,  with  black  lips  baked, 

Agape  they  heard  me  call  : 
Gramercy  !   they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 


«  See  !  see  !   (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more  ! 

Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 

She  steddies  with  upright  keel ! 

"  The  western  wave  was  all  a  flame, 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done ! 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  sun  ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

"And  straight  the  sun  was  fleck'd  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  mother  send  us  grace  !) 

As  if  through  a  dungeon  grate  he  peer'd, 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

"Alas !   (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 

How  fasts  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun, 

Like  restless  gossameres  1 

"  Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun 

Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ] 
And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  1 
Is  that  a  Death  1  and  are  there  two  1 

Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  1 

"  Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 

Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

"  The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 

<The  game  is  done  !  I've  won,  I've  won  !' 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

«  A  gust  of  wind  sterte  up  behind 
And  whistled  through  his  bones ; 

Through  the  holes  of  his  eyes  and  the  hole  of 

his  mouth, 
Half-whistles  and  half-groans. 

"  The  sun's  rim  dips  ;  the  stars  rush  out : 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark  ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 

Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

"  We  listen'd  and  look'd  sideways  up  ! 
Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seem'd  to  sip  ! 
The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 
The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleam'd  white  ; 

From  the  sails  the  dews  did  drip — 
Till  clombe  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

"  One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogg'd  moon, 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh ; 
Each  turn'd  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

"  Four  times  fifty  living  men, 

(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan,) 

With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropp'd  down  one  by  one. 


88 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


"  The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  pass'd  me  by, 

Like  the  whiz  of  my  cross-bow !" 

PART  IV. 

"I  FEAII  thee,  ancient  mariner! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 
And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribb'd  sea-sand. 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown." — 

"  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  wedding  guest ! 
This  body  dropt  not  down. 

"  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My  soul  in  agony. 

"  The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 
And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on ;  and  so  did  I. 

"  I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  sea, 

And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 
I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  deck, 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

"  I  look'd  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray ; 

But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 

My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

"  I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ;  [sky 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the 
Lay,  like  a  cloud,  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

"  The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 
The  look  with  which  they  look'd  on  me 

Had  never  pass'd  away. 

"  An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  : 
But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye ! 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

"  The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky, 

And  nowhere  did  abide  ; 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 

And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

"  Her  beams  bemock'd  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

"  Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watch'd  the  water  snakes  : 
They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 
And  when  they  rear'd,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


"  Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watch'd  their  rich  attire ; 
Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 
They  coil'd  and  swam;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

"  O  happy  living  things !  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare  ; 
A  spring  of  love  gusht  from  my  heart, 

And  I  bless'd  them  unaware! 
Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  bless'd  them  unaware. 

"  The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray ; 

And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 

Like  lead  into  the  sea." 

PART   V. 
«O  SLEEP  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven, 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 

«  The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remain'd, 
I  dreamt  that  they  were  filFd  with  dews ; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rain'd. 

"  My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 

My  garments  all  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 

And  still  my  body  drank. 

"  I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  : 

I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 

And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

"  And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind  : 

It  did  not  come  anear ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

"  The  upper  air  burst  into  life ! 

And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about; 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

«  And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  ; 

And  the  rain  pour'd  down  from  one  black  cloud  ; 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

«  The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 

The  moon  was  at  its  side ; 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 

A  river  steep  and  wide; 

"  The  loud  wind  never  reach'd  the  ship 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

"  They  groan'd,  they  stirr'd,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 

It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


89 


«  The  helmsman  steer'd,  the  ship  moved  on : 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do  : 
They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

«  The  body  of  my  brother's  son 

Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee : 
The  body  and  I  pull'd  at  one  rope, 

But  he  said  nought  to  me." 

« I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner !" 

"  Be  calm  thou,  wedding-guest ! 
'T  was  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 

«  For  when  it  dawn'd — they  dropp'd  their  arms, 

And  cluster'd  round  the  mast; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 

And  from  their  bodies  pass'd. 

"Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 

Then  darted  to  the  sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 

Now  mix'd,  now  one  by  one. 

«  Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 

I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing  ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seem'd  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 

"And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

"  It  ceased ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, . 
A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

"  Till  noon  we  quietly  sail'd  on, 

Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe  : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 

Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

«  Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

The  spirit  slid  :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

"The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 

Had  fixt  her  to  the  ocean  ; 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir, 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length, 

With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

"  Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 

She  made  a  sudden  bound : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 
12 


"  How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 

I  have  not  to  declare ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  return'd, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discern'd 

Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"  'Is  it  he ?'  quoth  one,  < Is  this  the  man  ] 

By  him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

"  '  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 

In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 

Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 

"  The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey  dew  : 
Quoth  he,  '  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.' 

PART    VI. 

FIRST     VOICE. 

"  <BuT  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again, 

Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  1 

What  is  the  ocean  doing  V 

SECOND      VOICE. 

"  *  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 

The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 

Up  to  the  moon  is  cast — 

"  <  If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 

For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim, 
See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 

She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

FIRST     VOICE. 

"  '  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  V 

SECOND     VOICE. 

"  « The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

«« «  Fly,  brother,  fly  !  more  high,  more  high  I 

Or  we  shall  be  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 

When  the  mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 

"I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 
'T  was  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

"All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 

For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter: 
All  fix'd  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 

That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

"  The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 

Had  never  pass'd  away  : 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

"  And  now  this  spell  was  snapt:  once  more 
I  view'd  the  ocean  green, 

H2  


so 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


And  look'd  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

"  Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turn'd  round,  walks  on, 
And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 

Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

"But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  soured  nor  motion  made  : 

Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

"  It  raised  my  hair,  it  fann'd  my  cheek, 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring- — 

It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

"  Swiftly,  swiftly,  flew  the  ship, 

Yet  she  sail'd  softly  too  : 
Sweetly,  sweetly,  blew  the  breeze — 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 


The  light-house  top  I  see? 

Is  this  the  hill  1  is  this  the  kirk  ? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ] 

«  We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour  bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

«  The  harbour  bay  was  clear  as  glass, 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

"  The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 

That  stands  above  the  rock : 
The  moonlight  steep'd  in  silentness 

The  steady  weathercock. 

"And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 

Till,  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colours  came. 

"  A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were; 

1  turn'd  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

Oh,  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ! 

"  Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 

And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

"  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand : 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 

Each  one  a  lovely  light : 

"  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 

No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice ;  but  oh  !  the  silence  sank 

Like  music  on  my  heart. 


"But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

I  heard  the  pilot's  cheer; 
My  head  was  turn'd  perforce  away, 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

"  The  pilot,  and  the  pilot's  boy, 

I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  heaven !  it  was  a  joy 

The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

"  I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice : 

It  is  the  hermit  good ! 
He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 
He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood." 

PART  VII. 

"Tnis  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 

That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

"  He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak  stump. 

"  The  skiff-boat  near'd  :  I  heard  them  talk, 

<  Why  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 

That  signal  made  but  now  T 

"  « Strange,  by  my  faith  !'  the  hermit  said — 

<  And  they  answer'd  not  our  cheer  ! 

The  planks  look  warp'd  !  and  see  those  sails, 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 
I  never  saw  ought  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

«  *  The  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest  brook  alonar : 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 

That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 

"  <  Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look' — 

(The  pilot  made  reply) — 
<  I  am  afeared' — '  Push  on,  push  on  !' 

Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 

"  The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 

But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirr'd  ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 

And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

"  Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 

Still  louder  and  more  dread  : 
It  reach'd  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay  ; 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

"  Stunn'd  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 
Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drown'd, 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 
But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  pilot's  boat. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


91 


«  Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 

And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

"  I  moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shriek'd 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 

And  pray'd  where  he  did  sit. 

"  I  took  the  oars  :  the  pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 
Laugh'd  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

<  Ha !  ha  !'  quoth  he,  <  full  plain  I  see, 

The  devil  knows  how  to  row.' 

"  And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 
The  hermit  stepp'd  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

<  <  O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  !' 
The  hermit  cross'd  his  brow. 

<  Say  quick/  quoth  he,  '  I  bid  thee  say — 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?' 

«  Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrench'd 

With  a  woeful  agony, 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

«  Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That  agony  returns ; 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 

This  heart  within  me  burns. 

"  I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 

I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me : 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

"  What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door ! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there ; 
But  in  the  garden  bower  the  bride 

And  bridemaids  singing  are  ; 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer ! 

"  0  wedding-guest !  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

«  0  sweeter  than  the  marriage  feast, 

'T  is  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 

With  a  goodly  company  ! — 

"  To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 
Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

«  Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 

To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 

Both  man,  and  bird,  and  beast. 


"  He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone  ;  and  now  the  wedding-guest 
Turn'd  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunn'd, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 

He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


LOVE. 

Alt.  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 

Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
Are  all  but  ministers  of  love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 

Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 

Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man, 

The  statue  of  the  armed  knight; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own 

My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 

I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace, 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  thaj  wore 

Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  ;  and  ah  ! 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 


92 


SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE. 


But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 

That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  that  he  cross 'd  the  mountain  woods, 
IN  or  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 

And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 

An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 

He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  land  ! 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees ; 

And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay ; 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 

That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb'd  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 

Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music,  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 

An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 

She  blush'd  with  love,  and  virgin  shame ; 
And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stept  aside, 

As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half-enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 

She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 

And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 

And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 


THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP. 

ERE  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 
It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 
With  moving  lips  or  bended  knees : 
But  silently,  by  slow  degrees, 
My  spirit  I  to  love  comprise, 
In  humble  trust  mine  eyelids  close, 

WTith  reverential  resignation, 
No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  expressed, 

Only  a  sense  of  supplication ; 
A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  impress'd 
That  I  am  weak,  yet  not  unblest, 
Since  in  me,  round  me,  everywhere 
Eternal  strength  and  wisdom  are. " 
But  yesternight  I  prayed  aloud 

In  anguish  and  in  agony, 
Up-starting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 

Of  shapes  and  thoughts  that  tortured  me : 
A  lurid  light,  a  trampling  throng, 
Sense  of  intolerable  wrong, 
And  whom  I  scorn'd,  those  only  strong ! 
Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 
Still  baffled,  and  yet  burning  still ! 
Desire  with  loathing  strangely  mix'd, 
On  wild  or  hateful  objects  fix'd. 
Fantastic  passion*  :  maddening  brawl ! 
And  shame  and  terror  over  all ! 
Deed  to  be  hid  which  were  not  hid, 

Which  all  confused  I  could  not  know, 
Whether  I  suffer'd,  or  I  did  : 

For  all  seem'd  guilt,  remorse,  or  wo, 
My  own  or  others',  still  the  same 
Life-stifling  fear,  soul-stifling  shame. 
So  two  nights  pass'd :  the  night's  dismay 
Sadden'd  and  stunn'd  the  coming  day. 
Sleep,  the  wide  blessing,  seem'd  to  me 
Distemper's  worst  calamity. 
The  third  night,  when  my  own  loud  scream 
Had  waked  me  from  the  fiendish  dream, 
O'ercome  with  sufferings  strange  and  wild, 
I  wept  as  I  had  been  a  child ; 
And  having  thus  by  tears  subdued 
My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood, 
Such  punishments,  I  said,  were  due 

To  natures  deepliest  stain'd  with  sin, — 
For  aye  entempesting  anew 

The  unfathomable  hell  within, 
The  horror  of  their  deeds  to  view, 
To  know  and  loathe,  yet  wish  and  do ! 
Such  griefs  with  such  men  well  agree, 
But  wherefore,  wherefore  fall  on  me  1 
To  be  beloved  is  all  I  need, 
And  whom  I  love,  I  love  indeed. 


CONCEALMENT. 

TIME,  as  he  courses  onward,  still  unrolls 
The  volume  of  Concealment.     In  the  future, 
As  in  the  optician's  glassy  cylinder, 
The  indistinguishable  blots  and' colours 
Of  the  dim  past  collect  and  shape  themselves, 
Upstarting  in  their  own  completed  image 
To  scare  or  to  reward. 


ROBERT    SOUTHS Y. 


DR.  SOUTHEY  was  the  son  of  a  linen  draper 
in  Bristol,  where  he  was  born  on  the  twelfth 
of  August,  1774.  In  his  sixteenth  year  he 
was  placed  at  the  Westminster  School,  arid  in 
1792  at  Baliol  College,  with  the  design  of 
his  entering  the  church.  His  career  at  Ox- 
ford was  a  brief  one ;  his  tendency  toward 
Socinianism  made  the  plan  marked  out  for 
him  disagreeable;  and  he  returned  to  Bristol, 
where  in  1794  he  published,  in  conjunction 
with  ROBERT  LOVELL,  his  first  collection  of 
poems.  In  the  autumn  of  the  following  year 
he  was  married  to  a  sister  of  the  wife  of  his 
friend  COLERIDGE,  and  soon  after,  while  he 
was  on  his  way  to  Lisbon,  appeared  his  Joan 
of  Arc.  It  was  about  this  time  that  he  wrote, 
in  three  days,  his  notable  drama  of  Wat 
Tyler,  which  was  surreptitiously  printed 
some  twenty-three  years  afterward.  In  the 
summer  of  1796  he  returned  to  England,  re- 
moved to  London,  and  entered  Gray's  Inn. 
A  portion  of  the  years  1800  and  1801  were 
passed  in  the  Peninsula,  whence  he  sent 
home  his  romance  of  Thalaba  the  Destroyer, 
which  permanently  established  his  reputation 
as  a  poet.  At  the  end  of  a  short  residence  in 
Dublin,  as  secretary  to  the  Irish  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  he  went  to  Keswick,  where 
he  lived  the  rest  of  his  life.  In  1805  he  pub- 
lished Madoc,  which  had  been  brought  to  a 
close  in  1799 ;  in  1810  the  Curse  of  Kehama, 
in  1814  Roderick  the  last  of  the  Goths,  in 
1821  The  Vision  of  Judgment,  and  in  1825 
The  Tale  of  Paraguay,  the  latest  of  his 
longer  poems.  Beside  these  he  wrote  nu- 
merous briefer  pieces,  all  of  which  are  in- 
cluded in  the  ten  volume  edition  of  his  poeti- 
cal works  which  appeared  in  London  under 
his  own  supervision  in  1837,  and  was  re- 
printed by  Appleton  and  Company,  in  New 
York,  in  1839. 

In  addition  to  his  poems,  Mr.  SOUTIIEY 
produced  numerous  prose  works,  of  which  the 
principal  are  Amadis  de  Gaul,  from  the  Spa- 
nish;  Palmp.rin  of  P^ngland,  from  the  Portu- 
guese ;  Letters  from  England,  written  under 
the  fictitious  name  of  Espriella ;  the  Chroni- 
cle of  the  Cid,  from  the  Spanish;  Omniana, 


The  History  of  Brazil,  The  History  of  the 
Peninsular  War,  The  Book  of  the  Church, 
Vindiciae  Ecclesise  Anglicanse,  Colloquies  on 
the  Progress  and  Prospects  of  Society,  The 
Life  of  Nelson,  The  Life  of  Wesley,  The  Life 
of  Cowper,  editions,  with  memoirs  of  the  au- 
thors, of  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  The  Works 
of  Chatterton,  and  The  Works  of  Henry  Kirke 
White,  numerous  contributions  to  the  Quar- 
terly Review,  and  that  remarkable  book,  The 
Doctor. 

On  the  death  of  Mr.  PYE,  in  1813,  SOUTHEY 
was  appointed  poet  laureate;  and  in  1821  he 
received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws  from 
the  University  of  Oxford.  In  the  spring  of 
1839  he  contracted  a  second  marriage  with 
CAROLINE  ANNE,  daughter  of  Mr.  CHARLES 
BOWLES,  and  one  of  the  most  pathetic  and 
natural  of  the  living  writers  of  her  sex. 

Intense  labour  in  every  department  of  lite- 
rature— in  poetry,  philosophy,  history,  bio- 
graphy and  criticism — continued  for  so  many 
years, at  length  obscured  SOUTHEY'S  genius, and 
reduced  him  to  a  state  of  mental  darkness. 
For  three  years  before  his  death  his  intellect 
was  nearly  gone,  and  in  the  last  year  of  his 
life  he  could  not  recognise  the  dearest  mem- 
bers of  his  family.  He  died  at  Keswick  on 
the  twenty-first  of  March,  1843,  in  the  sixty- 
eighth  year  of  his  age. 

SOUTHEY'S  prose  is  hardly  exceeded  in  the 
English  language.  It  is  clear,  vigorous, 
manly,  and  graceful,  worthy  of  the  elder  and 
greatest  writers.  In  his  poems,  especially 
his  longer  ones,  we  rather  admire  the  author 
than  the  works ;  his  energy  seems  rather  force 
of  character  than  of  mind,  and  we  are  more 
struck  by  the  resistless  daring  of  his  temper 
than  the  boldness  of  his  faculties.  His  effu- 
sions are  not  instinctive  or  spontaneous ;  he  does 
not  seem  to  have  "fed  on  thoughts  that  volun- 
tary move  harmonious  numbers :"  he  urges  his 
genius  rather  than  is  mastered  by  it.  The 
goal  perhaps  is  reached  in  good  time,  but  it 
is  by  application  of  the  spur.  His  poems  un- 
questionably have  that  pulchritude  which  bars 
dispraise;  the  dukia  sunfo  which  should  kin- 
dle enthusiasm  is  lacking.  Yet,  after  every 

93 


94 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


abatement,  his  name  will  remain  one  of  the 
greatest  in  modern  poetry. 

To  master  and  wield  the  colossal  forms  of 
oriental  superstition,  to  animate  them  with 
human  and  familiar  interests,  to  render  them 
ductile  to  all  the  demands  of  art,  was  a  task 
which  only  the  extravagance  of  youth  would 
have  undertaken,  and  only  the  rarest  and  most 
remarkable  genius  could  accomplish.  This 
SOUTHEY  did,  and  with  entire  success.  With 
the  exception  of  BECKFORD,  he  was  the  first 
to  invade  the  gorgeous  East:  and  no  man 
has  followed  him  in  any  new  attempt  to  con- 
struct epics  from  materials  derived  only  from 
dictionaries  and  bibliothtqiies,  and  to  inspire 
modern  poetry  with  the  faith,  the  fears  and 
passions  of  a  people  extinct  for  thousands  of 
years. 

The  influence  of  these  extraordinary  works 
upon  the  literature  and  taste  of  England  has 
been  much  greater  than  is  generally  acknow- 
ledged. They  shattered  the  sceptre  of  that 
bastard  empire  of  decency  and  imbecility 
which  POPE'S  successors  had  set  up.  If 
WORDSWORTH  has  been  called  the  poet  of 
poets  in  respect  to  feeling,  SOUTHEY  may 
more  truly  be  termed  the  study  of  artists  in 
respect  to  imagination.  It  was  a  spark  from 
SOUTHEY'S  ardour\vhich  kindled  in  SCOTT  the 
ambition  to  reconstruct  the  crumbled  temple 
of  Scottish  chivalry;  and  he  led  BYRON  and 
MOORE  to  the  orient.  While  the  languid  tints 
of  HAYLEY  and  DARWIN  and  BEATTIE  were 
gathering  in  the  evening  of  its  glory  over  the 
once  splendid  sky  of  British  literature,  his 
spirit  suddenly  arose  above  the  horizon,  and 
streamed  over  the  scene  like  "a  thunder- 
storm against  the  wind."  From  that  time  the 
aspect  and  the  elements  of  English  poetry 
were  changed.  We  should  feel  that  a  man 
wanted  something  to  a  complete  insight  into 
the  character  of  modern  art  who  had  not  read 
Thai  aba  and  Kehama. 

Wrhen  we  look  at  the  great  poets  who  com- 
monly appear  about  the  time  that  a  nation  is 
passing  from  the  dominion  of  sense  to  that 
of  reason, — to  HOMER,  DANTE,  SPENSER, — we 
find  them  in  possession  of  all  the  faculties 
of  art, — invention,  construction,  decoration, 
passion,  sentimen*,  moral  sense.  Their  suc- 
cessors, severally,  have  some  one  or  two  of 


these,  in  exclusion  of  the  rest;  and  the  popu- 
larity of  any  poet  will  depend  upon  which 
quality  he  possesses.  But  it  by  no  means 
follows  that  this  popularity  will  be  a  test 
of  the  value  and  dignity  of  the  order  of  the 
gift  which  the  poet  has ;  for  some  of  the 
rarest  and  highest  capacities  of  the  artist  are 
those  which  are  not  the  most  highly  appre- 
ciated by  the  multitude.  SOUTHEY  had,  in  an 
eminent  degree,  a  power  which,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  SCOTT,  almost  all  his  contempora- 
ries wanted,  construction, — the  power  of  giv- 
ing/arm to  a  work, — the  architectural  faculty 
of  the  mind.  This  is  the  most  uncommon  of 
the  poet's  powers,  and  is  in  itself  a  great 
merit,  without  which  there  is  no  art.  It  is 
almost  the  only  faculty  which  JONSON  had  ; 
and  while  the  lower  benches  of  critics  have 
held  JONSON  cheap,  those  in  the  highest  seats 
have  always  deemed  that  his  title  to  a  place 
among  the  great  authors  of  his  country  was 
unquestionable. 

SOUTHEY'S  smaller  poems,  written  gene- 
rally at  a  later  period  of  life,  are  very  different 
from  the  longer  ones ;  and  the  difference  is  cha- 
racteristic of  .the  great  and  singular  change 
which  took  place  in  him  in  his  progress  from 
youth  to  age.  In  them  he  delights  chiefly  to 
illustrate  and  beautify  the  domestic  affections. 
The  spirit  that  once  soared  almost  beyond 
following,  here  loves  to  nestle  in  the  very 
bosom  of  social  feeling.  Humanity  in  its 
genuine  sympathies,  in  its  truest  and  most 
native  interests,  in  its  most  sincere  and  deep- 
born  sentiments,  is  the  sphere  around  which 
his  fancy  makes  its  willing  yet  controlled  and 
gentle  circuit.  Those  subjects  which  most 
other  writers  have  felt  as  a  dead  weight  upon 
their  powers,  as  duty,  piety,  temperance,  and 
fidelity,  seemed  to  inspire  him.  To  the  last 
his  genius  always  warmed  into  the  beauty  of 
its  youthful  ardour  whenever  a  good  affection 
was  to  be  expressed,  a  friend  to  be  commemo- 
rated, or  a  virtue  to  be  praised. 

These  poems,  indeed,  possess  a  charm  be- 
yond the  scope  of  criticism.  They  belong  to 
the  nowjustifiedexcellence  of  one  of  the  love- 
liest characters  of  which  literary  history  bears 
record.  They  show  us  the  heart  of  one  of 
the  best  men  that  modern  England  has  con- 
tained. 


ROBERT    SOU  THEY. 


ODE, 

WRITTEN   DURING   THK   NEGOTIATIONS    WITH  BONA- 
PARTE,   IN     JANUARY,    1814. 

WHO  counsels  peace  at  this  momentous  hour, 
When  God  hath  given  deliverance  to  the  oppress'd, 

And  to  the  injured  power  ? 

Who  counsels  peace,  when  vengeance,  like  a  flood, 
Rolls  on,  no  longer  now  to  be  repress'd  ; 

When  innocent  blood 
From  the  four  corners  of  the  world  cries  out 

For  justice  upon  one  accursed  head ; 

When  freedom  hath  her  holy  banners  spread 

Over  all  nations,  now  in  one  just  cause 

United;  when,  with  one  sublime  accord, 

Europe  throws  off  the  yoke  abhorr'd, 

And  loyalty,  and  faith,  and  ancient  laws 

Follow  the  avenging  sword  ! 

Wo,  wo  to  England  !  wo  and  endless  shame, 

If  this  heroic  land, 

False  to  her  feelings  and  unspotted  fame, 
Hold  out  the  olive  to  the  tyrant's  hand  ! 
Wo  to  the  world,  if  Bonaparte's  throne 

Be  suffer'd  still  to  stand  ! 
For  by   what  name  shall  right  and  wrong  be 

known, — 

What  new  and  courtly  phrases  must  we  feign 

For  falsehood,  murder,  and  all  monstrous  crimes, 

If  that  perfidious  Corsican  maintain 

Still  his  detested  reign, 
And  France,  who  yearns  even  now  to  break  her 

chain, 
Beneath  his  iron  rule  be  left  to  groan  1 

No  !   by  the  innumerable  dead, 
Whose  blood  hath  for  his  lust  of  power  been  shed, 

Death  only  can  for  his  foul  deeds  atone ; 

That  peace  which  death  and  judgment  can  bestow, 

That  peace  be  Bonaparte's, — that  alone  ! 

For  sooner  shall  the  Ethiop  change  his  skin, 

Or  from  the  leopard  shall  her  spots  depart, 

Than  this  man  change  his  old,  flagitious  heart. 

Have  ye  not  seen  him  in  the  balance  weigh'd, 

And  there  found  wanting?    On  the  stage  of  blood 

Foremost  the  resolute  adventurer  stood  ; 

And  when,  by  many  a  battle  won, 

He  placed  upon  his  brow  the  crown, 

Curbing  delirious  France  beneath  his  sway, 

Then,  like  Octavius  in  old  time, 

Fair  name  might  he  have  handed  down, 

Effacing  many  a  stain  of  former  crime. 

Fool !  should  he  cast  away  that  bright  renown  ! 

Fool !  the  redemption  proffer'd  should  he  lose  ! 

When  Heaven  such  grace  vouchsafed  him  that  the 

way 

To  good  and  evil  lay 
Before  him,  which  to  choose. 

But  evil  was  his  good, 

For  all  too  long  in  blood  had  he  been  nursed, 
And  ne'er  was  earth  with  verier  tyrant  cursed. 

Bold  man  and  bad, 

Remorseless,  godless,  full  of  fraud  and  lies, 

And  black  with  murders  and  with  perjuries, 

Himself  in  hell's  whole  panoply  he  clad ; 


No  law  but  his  own  headstrong  will  he  knew, 
No  counsellor  but  his  own  wicked  heart. 

From  evil  thus  portentous  strength  he  drew, 

And  trampled  under  foot  all  human  ties, 

All  holy  laws,  all  natural  charities. 

O  France  !  beneath  this  fierce  barbarian's  sway 

Disgraced  thou  art  to  all  succeeding  times ; 
Rapine,  and  blood,  aiid  fire  have  mark'd  thy  way, 

All  loathsome,  all  unutterable  crimes. 
A  curse  is  on  thee,  France  !  from  far  and  wide 
It  hath  gone  up  to  heaven.     All  lands  have  cried 

For  vengeance  upon  thy  detested  head  ! 

All  nations  curse  thee,  France  !  for  wheresoe'er, 

In  peace  or  war,  thy  banner  hath  been  spread, 

All  forms  of  human  woe  have  follow'd  there. 

The  living  and  the  dead 

Cry  out  alike  against  thee  !     They  who  bear, 

Crouching  beneath  its  weight,  thine  iron  yoke, 

Join  in  the  bitterness  of  secret  prayer 

The  voice  of  that  innumerable  throng, 

Whose  slaughter'd  spirits  day  and  night  invoke 

The  everlasting  Judge  of  right  and  wrong, 
How  long,  O  Lord  !    Holy  and  Just,  how  long ! 

A  merciless  oppressor  hast  thou  been, 

Thyself  remorselessly  oppress'd  meantime  ; 

Greedy  of  war,  when  all  that  thou  couldst  gain 

Was  but  to  dye  thy  soul  with  deeper  crime, 

And  rivet  faster  round  thyself  the  chain. 
Oh !  blind  to  honour,  and  to  interest  blind, 

When  thus  in  abject  servitude  resign'd 
To  this  barbarian  upstart,  thou  couldst  brave 
God's  justice,  and  the  heart  of  human-kind  ! 
Madly  thou  thoughtest  to  enslave  the  world, 

Thyself  the  while  a  miserable  slave. 

Behold,  the  flag  of  vengeance  is  unfurl'd! 

The  dreadful  armies  of  the  North  advance ; 

While  England,  Portugal,  and  Spain  combined, 

Give  their  triumphant  banners  to  the  wind, 

And  stand  victorious  in  the  fields  of  France. 

One  man  hath  been  for  ten  long,  wretched  years 
The  cause  of  all  this  blood  and  all  these  tears ; 

One  man  in  this  most  awful  point  of  time 
Draws  on  thy  danger,  as  he  caused  thy  crime. 

Wait  not  too  long  the  event, 

For  now  whole  Europe  comes  against  thee  bent; 

His  wiles  and  their  own  strength  the  nations  know : 

Wise  from  past  wrongs,  on  future  peace  intent, 

The  people  and  the  princes,  with  one  mind, 

From  all  parts  move  against  the  general  foe ; 

One  act  of  justice,  one  atoning  blow, 

One  execrable  head  laid  low, 

Even  yet,  O  France  !  averts  thy  punishment. 

Open  thine  eyes  ! — too  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ; 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind  ! 

France  !  if  thou  lovest  thine  ancient  fame, 

Revenge  thy  sufferings  and  thy  shame  ! 

By  the  bones  which  bleach  on  Jaffa's  beach ; 

By  the  blood  which  on  Domingo's  shore 

Hath  clogg'd  the  carrion-birds  with  gore ; 

By  the  flesh  which  gorged  the  wolves  of  Spain, 

Or  stiffen'd  on  the  snowy  plain 

Of  fro/.en  Moscovy ; 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


By  the  bodies,  which  lie  all  open  to  the  sky, 

Tracking  from  Elbe  to  Rhine  the  tyrant's  flight ; 

By  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  cry ; 

By  the  childless  parent's  misery  ; 

By  the  lives  which  he  hath  shed ; 

By  the  ruin  he  hath  spread ; 

By  the  prayers  which  rise  for  curses  on  his  head, — 

Redeem,  O  France !  thine  ancient  fame, 

Revenge  thy  sufferings  and  thy  shame, 

Open  thine  eyes  !— too  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ; 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind ! 

By  those  horrors  which  the  night 

Witness'd  when  the  torches'  light 

To  the  assembled  murderers  show'd 

Where  the  blood  of  Conde  flow'd ; 

By  thy  murder'd  Pichegru's  fame ; 

By  murder'd  Wright — an  English  name; 

By  murder'd  Palm's  atrocious  doom ; 

By  murder'd  Hofer's  martyrdom, — 

Oh!  by  the  virtuous  blood  thus  vilely  spilt, 

The  villain's  own  peculiar,  private  guilt, 

Open  thine  eyes  ! — too  long  hast  thou  been  blind  ; 

Take  vengeance  for  thyself,  and  for  mankind  ! 


THE  HOLLY-TREE. 

0  READER  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly-tree  1 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves 

Order'd  by  an  intelligence  so  wise, 
As  might  confound  the  Atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 

Wrinkled  and  keen ; 
No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Can  reach  to  wound ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 
Smooth  and  unarm'd  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

1  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

And  moralize; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly-tree 

Can  emblem  see 

Wherewith  perchance  to  make  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after  time. 

Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere, 
To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 

Reserved  and  rude, 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be, 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I  know, 

Some  harshness  show, 
All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away, 

Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly-tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green, 
The  holly  leaves  a  sober  hue  display 

Less  bright  than  they  ; 


But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly-tree  1 

So  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng ; 
So  would  I  seem  amid  the  young  and  gay 

More  grave  than  they, 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly-tree. 


THE  DEAD   FRIEND. 

NOT  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Descend  to  contemplate 
The  form  that  once  was  dear  ! 

The  spirit  is  not  there 

Which  kindled  that  dead  eye, 

Which  throbb'd  in  that  cold  heart, 

Wrhich  in  that  motionless  hand 

Hath  met  thy  friendly  grasp. 

The  spirit  is  not  there  ! 
It  is  but  lifeless,  perishable  flesh 

That  moulders  in  the  grave  ; 
Earth,  air,  and  water's  ministering  particles 

Now  to  the  elements 

Resolved,  their  uses  done. 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved ; 

The  spirit  is  not  there  ! 

Often  together  have  we  talk'd  of  death  ; 

How  sweet  it  were  to  see 
All  doubtful  things  made  clear ; 
How  sweet  it  were  with  powers 

Such  as  the  Cherubim, 

To  view  the  depth  of  heaven  ! 

O  Edmund  !  thou  hast  first 

Begun  the  travel  of  eternity  ! 

I  look  upon  the  stars, 

And  think  that  thou  art  there, 

Unfetter'd  as  the  thought  that  follows  thee. 

And  we  have  often  said  how  sweet  it  were 

With  unseen  ministry  of  angel  power, 

To  watch  the  friends  we  loved. 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err! 
Sure  I  have  felt  thy  presence  !     Thou  hast  given 

A  birth  to  holy  thought, 

Hast  kept  me  from  the  world  unstain'd  and  pure. 

Edmund  !  we  did  not  err ! 

Our  best  affections  here, 

They  are  not  like  the  toys  of  infancy  ; 

The  soul  outgrows  them  not ; 

We  do  not  cast  them  off; 

O,  if  it  could  be  so, 

It  were  indeed  a  dreadful  thing  to  die ! 

Not  to  the  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  beloved ! 

But  in  the  lonely  hour, 

But  in  the  evening  walk, 

Think  that  he  companies  thy  solitude  ; 

Think  that  he  holds  with  thce 

Mysterious  intercourse ; 

And  though  remrmbrance  wake  a  tear, 

There  will  be  joy  in  grief. 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


97 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 

IT  was  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun, 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"  said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

"I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  here  about; 
And  often,  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ! 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory." 

"Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries  ; 
While  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up, 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
"Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for." 

"It  was  the  English,"  Kaspar  cried, 
"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  everybody  said,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  't  was  a  famous  victory. 

"  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide ; 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then, 

And  new-born  baby  died ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

"Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won, 
And  our  good  prince  Eugene." 

"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !" 
Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
13 


"  Nay — nay — my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

"  And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win." 

"And  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?" 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

«  Why,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 

"But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


REMEMBRANCE. 
The  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh.— Ali. 

MAIV  hath  a  weary  pilgrimage 
As  through  the  world  he  wends  ; 
On  every  stage,  from  youth  to  age, 

Still  discontent  attends ; 
With  heaviness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  days  that  are  no  more. 

To  school  the  little  exile  goes, 

Torn  from  his  mother's  arms, — 

What  then  shall  soothe  his  earliest  woes, 

When  novelty  hath  lost  its  charms  1 
Condemn'd  to  suffer  through  the  day 
Restraints  which  no  rewards  repay, 
And  cares  where  love  has  no  concern, 
Hope  lengthens  as  she  counts  the  hours 

Before  his  wish'd  return. 
From  hard  control  and  tyrant  rules, 
The  unfeeling  discipline  of  schools, 

In  thought  he  loves  to  roam, 
And  tears  will  struggle  in  his  eye, 
While  he  remembers  with  a  sigh 
The  comforts  of  his  home. 

Youth  comes  ;  the  toils  and  cares  of  life 

Torment  the  restless  mind  ; 
Where  shall  the  tired  and  harass'd  heart 

Its  consolation  find  ? 
Then  is  not  Youth,  as  Fancy  tells, 

Life's  summer  prime  of  joy  1 
Ah  no!  for  hopes  too  long  delay'd 
And  feelings  blasted  or  betray'd, 

Its  fabled  bliss  destroy  ; 

And  Youth  remembers  with' a  sigh 

The  careless  days  of  Infancy. 

Maturer  Manhood  now  arrives, 
And  other  thoughts  come  on, 
But  with  the  baseless  hopes  of  Youth 

Its  generous  warmth  is  gone ; 
Cold,  calculating  cares  succeed, 
The  timid  thought,  the  wary  deed, 

The  dull  realities  of  truth; 
Back  on  the  past  he  turns  his  eye, 
Remembering,  with  an  envious  sigh, 

The  happy  dreams  of  Youth. 
So  reaches  he  the  latter  stage 
Of  this  our  mortal  pilgrimage, 

With  feeble  step  and  slow  ; 

New  ills  that  latter  stage  await, 

And  old  Experience  learns  too  late 

That  all  is  vanity  below. 

I 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


Life's  vain  delusions  are  gone  by ; 

Its  idle  hopes  are  o'er ; 
Yet  Age  remembers  with  a  sigh 

The  days  that  are  no  more. 


RODERICK  IN  BATTLE. 

COUJTT  Julian's  soldiers  and  the  Asturian  host 
Set  up  a  shout,  a  joyful  shout,  which  rung 
Wide  through  the  welkin.     Their  exulting  cry 
With  louder  acclamation  was  renew'd, 
When  from  the  expiring  miscreant's  neck  they  saw 
That  Roderick  took  the  shield,  and  round  his  own 
Hung  it,  and  vaulted  in  the  seat.     My  horse  ! 
My  noble  horse !    he  cried,  with  nattering  hand 
Patting  his  high-arch' d  neck  !  the  renegade — 
I  thank  him  for't — hath  kept  thee  daintily  ! 
Orelio,  thou  art  in  thy  beauty  still, 
Thy  pride  and  strength  !  Orelio,  my  good  horse, 
Once  more  thou  bearest  to  the  field  thy  lord, 
He  who  so  oft  hath  fed  and  cherish'd  thee, 
He  for  whose  sake,  wherever  thou  wert  seen, 
Thou  wert  by  all  men  honour'd.     Once  again 
Thou  hast  thy  proper  master  !     Do  thy  part 
As  thou  wert  wont;  and  bear  him  gloriously, 
My  beautiful  Orelio, — to  the  last — 
Th^j  happiest  of  his  fields  ! — Then  he  drew  forth 
The  cimeter,  and,  waving  it  aloft, 
Rode  toward  the  troops ;  its  unaccustom'd  shape 
Disliked  him.     Renegade  in  all  things  !   cried 
The  Goth,  and  cast  it  from  him ;  to  the  chiefs 
Tlu>n  said,  If  I  have  done  ye  service  here, 
Help  me,  I  pray  you,  to  a  Spanish  sword ! 
The  trustiest  blade  that  e'er  in  Bilbilis 
Was  dipp'd,  would  not  to-day  be  misbestowed 
On  this  right  hand ! — Go,  some  one,Gunderick  cried, 
And  bring  Count  Julian's  sword.  Whoe'er  thou  art, 
The  worth  which  thou  hast  shown  avenging  him 
Entitles  thee  to  wear  it.     But  thou  goest 
For  battle  unequipp'd — haste  there,  and  strip 
Yon  villain  of  his  armour  !     Late  he  spake, 
So  fast  the  Moors  came  on.     It  matters  not, 
Replied  the  Goth;  there's  many  a  mountaineer, 
Who  in  no  better  armour  cased  this  day 
Than  his  wonted  leathern  gipion,  will  be  found 
In  the  hottest  battle,  yet  bring  offuntouch'd 
The  unguarded  life  he  ventures. — Taking  then 
Count  Julian's  sword,  he  fitted  round  his  wrist 
The  chain,  and  eyeing  the  elaborate  steel 
With  stern  regard  of  joy — The  African 
Under  unhappy  stars  was  born,  he  cried, 
Who  tastes  thy  edge ! — Make  ready  for  the  charge ! 
They  come — they  come! — On,  brethren,   to  the 

field  !— 
The  word  is,  Vengeance  ! 

Vengeance  was  the  word  ; 
From  man  to  man,  and  rank  to  rank  it  pass'd, 
By  every  heart  enforced,  by  every  voice 
Sent  forth  in  loud  defiance  of  the  foe. 
The  enemy  in  shriller  sounds  return'd 
Their  Akbar  and  the  prophet's  trusted  name. 
The  horsemen  lower'd  their  spears,  the  infantry, 
Deliberately,  with  slow  and  steady  step,      [hiss'd, 
Advanced  ;  the  bow-strings  twang'd,  and  arrows 


And  javelins  hurtled  by.     Anon  the  hosts 
Met  in  the  shock  of  battle,  horse  and  man  [mace, 
Conflicting ;  shield  struck  shield,  and  sword,  and 
And  curtle-axe  on  helm  and  buckler  rung ; 
Armour  was  riven, and  wounds  were  interchanged, 
And  many  a  spirit  from  its  mortal  hold 
Hurried  to  bliss  or  bale.     Well  did  the  chiefs 
Of  Julian's  army  in  that  hour  support 
Their  old  esteem ;  and  well  Count  Pedro  there 
Enhanced  his  former  praise;  and  by  his  side, 
Rejoicing  like  a  bridegroom  in  the  strife, 
Alphonso  through  the  host  of  infidels 
Bore  on  his  bloody  lance  dismay  and  death. 
But  there  was  worst  confusion  and  uproar, 
There  widest  slaughter  and  dismay,  where,  proud 
Of  his  recover'd  lord,  Orelio  plunged 
Through  thickest  ranks,  trampling  beneath  his  feet 
The  living  and  the  dead.     Where'er  he  turns, 
The  Moors  divide  and  fly.     What  man  is  this, 
AppalPd  they  say,  who  to  the  front  of  war 
Bareheaded  offers  thus  his  naked  life  ? 
Replete  with' power  he  is,  and  terrible, 
Like  some  destroying  angel !    Sure  his  lips 
Have  drank  of  Kaf  s  dark  fountain,  and  he  comes 
Strong  in  his  immortality  !     Fly  !  fly  ! 
They  said  ;  this  is  no  human  foe  ! — Nor  less 
Of  wonder  fill'd  the  Spaniards  when  they  saw 
How  flight  and  terror  went  before  his  way, 
And  slaughter  in  his  path.     Behold,  cries  one, 
With  what  command  and  knightly  ease  he  sits 
The  intrepid  steed,  and  deals  from  side  to  side 
His  dreadful  blows  !     Not  Roderick  in  his  power 
Bestrode  with  such  command  and  majesty 
That  noble  war-horse.     His  loose  robe  this  day 
Is  death's  black  banner,  shaking  from  its  folds 
Dismay  and  ruin.     Of  no  mortal  mould 
Is  he  who  in  that  garb  of  peace  affronts 
Whole  hosts,  and  sees  them  scatter  where  he  turns  ! 
Auspicious  Heaven  beholds  us,  and  some  saint 
Revisits  earth ! 


NIGHT. 


How  beautiful  is  night! 

A  dewy  freshness  fills  the  silent  air ; 

No  mist  obscures,  nor  cloud,  nor  speck,  nor  stain, 

Breaks  the  serene  of  heaven  : 

In  full-orb'd  glory  yonder  moon  divine 

Rolls  through  the  dark-blue  depths. 

Beneath  her  steady  ray 

The  desert-circle  spreads, 

Like  the  round  ocean,  girdled  with  the  sky. 

How  beautiful  is  night ! 

Who,  at  this  untimely  hour, 
Wanders  o'er  the  desert  sands  1 

No  station  is  in  view, 
Nor  palm-grove,  islanded  amid  the  waste. 

The  mother  and  her  child, 
The  widow'd  mother  and  the  fatherless  boy, 

They  at  this  untimely  hour, 
Wander  o'er  the  desert  sands. 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


99 


ALADDIN'S  PARADISE. 

AND  oh  !  what  odours  the  voluptuous  vale 

Scatters  from  jasmine  bowers, 

From  yon  rose  wilderness, 
From  cluster'd  henna,  and  from  orange  groves 

That  with  such  perfume  fill  the  breeze, 

As  Peris  to  their  sister  bear, 
When  from  the  summit  of  some  lofty  tree 
She  hangs,  engaged,  the  captive  of  the  Dives. 
They  from  their  pinions  shake 

The  sweetness  of  celestial  flowers ; 

And  as  her  enemies  impure 
From  that  impetuous  poison  far  away 
Fly  groaning  with  the  torment,  she  the  while 
Inhales  her  fragrant  food. 

Such  odours  flow'd  upon  the  world, 

When  at  Mohammed's  nuptials,  word 

Went  forth  in  heaven  to  roll 
The  everlasting  gates  of  paradise 
Back  on  their  living  hinges,  that  its  gales 
Might  visit  all  below :   the  general  bliss 
Thrill'd  every  bosom,  and  the  family 
Of  man,  for  once,  partook  a  common  joy. 


LISTENING  TO  STORMS. 

'Trs  pleasant,  by  the  cheerful  hearth,  to  hear 
Of  tempests,  and  the  dangers  of  the  deep, 
And  pause  at  times,  and  feel  that  we  are  safe  ; 
Then  listen  to  the  perilous  tale  again, 
And  with  an  eager  and  suspended  soul, 
Woo  terror  to  delight  us ;  but  to  hear 
The  roaring  of  the  raging  elements, 
To  know  all  human  skill,  all  human  strength, 
Avail  not;  to  look  round  and  only  see 
The  mountain  wave  incumbent,  with  its  weight 
Of  bursting  waters,  o'er  the  reeling  bark, — 
O  God,  this  is  indeed  a  dreadful  thing ! 
And  he  who  hath  endured  the  horror  once 
Of  such  an  hour,  doth  never  hear  the  storm 
Howl  round  his  home,  but  he  remembers  it, 
And  thinks  upon  the  suffering  mariner  ! 


CHILDHOOD  OF  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

HERE  in  solitude 

My  soul  was  nurst,  amid  the  loveliest  scenes 
Of  unpolluted  nature.     Sweet  it  was, 
As  the  white  mists  of  morning  roll'd  away, 
To  see  the  mountains'  wooded  heights  appear 
Dark  in  the  early  dawn,  and  mark  its  slope, 
Rich  with  the  blossom'd  furze,  as  the  slant  sun 
On  the  golden  ripeness  pour'd  a  deepening  light. 
Pleasant,  at  noon,  beside  the  vocal  brook, 
To  lie  me  down  and  watch  the  floating  clouds, 
And  shape  to  fancy's  wild  similitudes 
Their  ever-varying  forms;  and  ho,  most  sweet! 
To  drive  my  flock  at  evening  to  the  fold, 
And  hasten  to  our  little  hut,  and  hear 
The  voice  of  kindness  bid  me  welcome  home. 


EPITAPH. 

THIS  to  a  mother's  sacred  memory 
Her  son  hath  hallow'd.     Absent  many  a  year 
Far  over  sea,  his  sweetest  dreams  were  still 
Of  that  dear  voice  which  sooth'd  his  infancy  : 
And  after  many  a  fight  against  the  Moor 
And  Malabar,  or  that  fierce  cavalry 
Which  he  had  seen  covering  the  boundless  plain 
Even  to  the  utmost  limits  where  the  eye 
Could  pierce  the  far  horizon, — his  first  thought, 
In  safety,  was  of  her,  who,  when  she  heard 
The  tale  of  that  day's  danger,  would  retire 
And  pour  her  pious  gratitude  to  heaven 
In  prayers  and  tears  of  joy.     The  lingering  hour 
Of  his  return,  long-look'd  for,  came  at  length, 
And  full  of  hope  he  reach'd  his  native  shore. 
Vain  hope  that  puts  its  trust  in  human  life  ! 
For  ere  he  came  the  number  of  her  days 
Was  full.     O  reader,  what  a  world  were  this, 
How  unendurable  its  weight,  if  they 
Whom  Death  hath  sunder'd  did  not  meet  again ! 


A  SUB-MARINE  CITY. 

THKTTI  golden  summits  in  the  noonday  light, 

Shone  o'er  the  dark-green  deep  that  roll'd  between  ; 

For  domes  and  pinnacles,  and  spires  were  seen 

Peering  above  the  sea — a  mournful  sight ! 
Well  might  the  sad  beholder  ween  from  thence 

What  works  of  wonder  the  devouring  wave 
Had  swallow'd  there,  when  monuments  so  brave 

Bore  record  of  their  old  magnificence. 

And  on  the  sandy  shore,  beside  the  verge 

Of  ocean,  here  and  there  a  rock-hewn  fane 

Resisted  in  its  strength  the  surf  and  surge 

That  on  their  deep  foundations  beat  in  vain. 

In  solitude  the  ancient  temples  stood, 
Once  resonant  with  instrument  and  song, 
And  solemn  dance  of  festive  multitude ; 

Now  as  the  weary  ages  pass  along, 

Hearing  no  voice  save  of  the  ocean  flood, 

Which  roars  for  ever  on  the  restless  shores ; 

Or,  visiting  their  solitary  caves, 

The  lonely  sound  of  winds,  that  moan  around, 

Accordant  to  the  melancholy  waves. 


AN  EASTERN  EVENING. 


comes  on  :  arising  from  the  stream, 
Homeward  the  tall  flamingo  wings  his  flight  ; 
And  where  he  sails  athwart  the  setting  beam, 
His  scarlet  plumage  glows  with  deeper  light. 
The  watchman,  at  the  wish'd  approach  of  night, 

Gladly  forsakes  the  field,  where  he  all  day, 
To  scare  the  winged  plunderers  from  their  prey, 
With  shout  and  sling,  on  yonder  clay-built  height, 

Hath  borne  the  sultry  ray. 

Hark  !  at  the  Golden  Palaces, 

The  Bramin  strikes  the  hour. 

For  leagues  and  leagues  around,  the  brazen  sound 

Rolls  through  the  stillness  of  departing  day, 

Like  thunder  far  away. 


100 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


THE  LOCUST  CLOUD. 

Ox  WARD  they  came,  a  dark  continuous  cloud 

Of  congregated  myriads  numberless, 
The  rushing  of  whose  wings  was  as  the  sound 

Of  a  broad  river,  headlong  in  its  course 
Plunged  from  a  mountain  summit;  or  the  roar 

Of  a  wild  ocean  in  the  autumn  storm, 

Shattering  its  billows  on  a  shore  of  rocks. 

Onward  they  came,  the  winds  impell'd  them  on, 

Their  work  was  done,  their  path  of  ruin  past, 

Their  graves  were  ready  in  the  wilderness. 

«  Behold  the  mighty  army  !"  Moath  cried, 
"  Blindly  they  move,  impell'd 

By  the  blind  element. 

And  yonder  birds,  our  welcome  visitants, 

Lo !  where  they  soar  above  the  embodied  host, 

Pursue  their  way,  and  hang  upon  their  rear, 

And  thin  their  spreading  flanks, 

Rejoicing  o'er  their  banquet !  Deemest  thou 

The  scent  of  water  on  some  Syrian  mosque 

Placed  with  priest-mummery,  and  the  jargon-rites 

Which  fool  the  multitude,  hath  led  them  here 

From  far  Khorassan  ]     Allah,  who  decreed 

Yon  tribe  the  plague  and  punishment  of  man, 

These  also  hath  he  doom'd  to  meet  their  way  : 

Both  passive  instruments 

Of  his  all-acting  will, 
Sole  mover  he,  arid  only  spring  of  all." 


EVENING. 

THUS  having  said,  the  pious  sufferer  sate, 
Beholding  with  fix'd  eyes  that  lovely  orb, 
Till  quiet  tears  confused  in  dizzy  light 
The  broken  moonbeams.     They  too  by  the  toil 
Of  spirit,  as  by  travail  of  the  day 
Subdued,  were  silent,  yielding  to  the  hour. 
The  silver  cloud  diffusing  slowly  past, 
And  now  into  its  airy  elements 
Resolved  is  gone ;  while  through  the  azure  depth 
Alone  in  heaven  the  glorious  moon  pursues 
Her  course  appointed,  with  indifferent  beams 
Shining  upon  the  silent  hills  around, 
And  the  dark  tents  of  that  unholy  host, 
Who,  all  unconscious  of  impending  fate, 
Take  their  last  slumber  there.     The  camp  is  still ; 
The  fires  have  moulder'd,and  the  breeze  which  stirs 
The  soft  and  snowy  embers,  just  lays  bare 
At  times  a  red  and  evanescent  light, 
Or  for  a  moment  wakes  a  feeble  flame. 
They  by  the  fountain  hear  the  stream  below, 
Whose  murmurs,  as  the  wind  arose  or  fell, 
Fuller  or  fainter  reach  the  ear  attuned. 
And  now  the  nightingale,  not  distant  far, 
Began  her  solitary  song ;  and  pour'd 
To  the  cold  moon  a  richer,  stronger  strain 
Than  that  with  which  the  lyric  lark  salutes 
The  new-born  day.     Her  deep  and  thrilling  song 
Seem'd  with  its  piercing  melody  to  reach 
The  soul,  and  in  mysterious  unison 


Blend  with  all  thoughts  of  gentleness  and  love. 
Their  hearts  were  open  to  the  healing  power 
Of  nature;  and  the  splendour  of  the  night, 
The  flow  of  waters,  and  that  sweetest  lay, 
Came  to  them  like  a  copious  evening  dew 
Falling  on  vernal  herbs  which  thirst  for  rain. 


IMMORTALITY  OF  LOVE. 

THEY  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die. 
With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity  ; 

In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell ; 

Earthly  these  passions  of  the  earth, 

They  perish  where  they  have  their  birth ; 

But  love  is  indestructible  : 

Its  holy  flame  for  ever  burneth, 

From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returneth. 

Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest, 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppress'd, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest : 

It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 
But  the  harvest-time  of  love  is  there. 
Oh  !  when  a  mother  meets  on  high 

The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy, 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 

The  day  of  wo,  the  watchful  night, 

For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears, 

An  over-payment  of  delight  ? 


STANZAS. 

Mr  days  among  the  dead  are  pass'd  ; 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old  ; 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
WTith  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  wo; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew 'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  dead  ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years ; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  dead ;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be, 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  futurity  : 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR. 


LANDOR  was  born,  we  are  told  in  the  "  Book 
of  Gems,"  from  which  we  gain  our  scanty  bio- 
graphical information  of  him,  at  Ipsley  Court, 
the  seat  of  his  family  in  Warwickshire,  in 
January,  1775.  He  was  educated  at  Rugby. 
He  has  spent  a  large  portion  of  his  time  abroad 
upon  the  continent,  in  Spain,  where  he  was 
intimately  concerned  in  its  politics,  and  in 
Italy,  where  he  occupied  a  villa  at  Fiesole  in 
the  vicinity  of  Florence.  He  now  resides  in 
England,  and  is  not  an  unfrequent  contributor 
to  the  London  Examiner,  where  his  pungent, 
exact  style  betrays  no  marks  of  weakness  or 
age.  His  last  articles  have  been  upon  the 
affairs  of  Greece,  and  the  proposed  monu- 
ment to  his  friend  SOUTHEY  at  Bristol.  The 
cause  of  liberty  and  truth  has  always  inspired 
his  pen.  What  he  sees  he  sees  clearly  and 
expresses  vividly.  His  great  prose  work, 
the  "Imaginary  Conversations,"  is  full  of 
noble  thoughts,  carved  out  as  in  statuary. 
His  "  Pericles  and  Aspasia"  is  worthy  to  be 
written  in  the  original  Greek,  where  Greek  is 
classic.  We  know  no  author  whose  writings 
breathe  a  more  conscious  presence  of  nobility. 
His  thought  is  perfect  and  entire,  calm,  clear, 
independent :  it  does  not  attempt  to  make  you 
a  convert;  it  is  there  without  any  declamation 
of  apology,  for  you  to  return  to  it  or  not,  as 
you  choose ;  but  you  do  return  to  it,  fascinated 
by  its  brightness  and  single  grandeur.  LAN- 
DOR  presents  himself  to  us  in  his  writings  as 
a  proud,  intellectual  man,  and  inflexible  lover 
of  truth,  though  not  insensible  to  prejudice; 
of  a  native  nobility  of  soul,  quickly  impressed 
by  the  show  of  manliness  and  worth ;  a  sincere 
friend,  and  what,  with  a  man  of  his  tempera- 
ment, is  its  correlative,  a  good  hater ;  a  fas- 
tidious, educated  man,  who  carries  his  moral 
sensitiveness  into  the  world  of  literature  ;  a 
lover  of  poetry,  himself  a  poet.  Mr.  LANDOR'S 
poetry,  however,  is  the  poetry  of  the  intellect 
rather  than  the  heart :  it  is  indeed  the  sweet 
flower  of  a  virtuous  life,  "of  high  erected 
thoughts  seated  in  a  heart  of  courtesy,"  but 
its  images  are  single,  isolated,  a  succession 
of  brilliant  mountain  peaks,  with  hardly  the 
warmth  and  continuous  life  of  the  sunny 


plains.  It  is  the  transposition  of  his  prose, 
which  is  saying  -that  his  prose  is  eloquent, 
refined,  poetical.  There  is  no  lyric  flow,  no 
flood  of  passion.  His  longest  poem,  "  Gebir,"* 
was  originally  partly  written  in  Latin,  and  is 
a  work  of  great  polish  and  strength  in  parts; 
as  a  whole  it  is  weak,  and  tells  no  story  worth 
telling.  But  this  is  to  say  what  it  is  not — a 
barren  style  of  criticism.  It  is  a  succession 
of  costly  pictures,  of  rare  dramatic  scenes ;  a 
collection  of  images  glowing  with  thought, 
full  of  feminine  tenderness  by  the  side  of 
manly  beauty,  a  poetic  quarry,  or  rather  an  un- 
inhabited but  kingly  furnished  palace,  stored 
with  marbles,  and  vases,  and  cabinet  paintings, 
but  wanting  the  living  tide  of  life.  The  sub- 
ject, however,  admits  of  this  treatment.  It 
is  one  of  Egyptian  enchantment.  In  the  old 
land  of  the  vSphinx  and  Memnon,  and  the  Pyra- 
mids, we  may  be  content  to  dwell  with  statues, 
and  walk  admiringly  among  the  silent  wonders 
of  art.  "  Gebir"  does  not  break  the  spell. 

Mr.  LANDOR  has  written  "Count  Julian,  a 
Tragedy,"  and  several  Dramatic  Sketches. 
He  stands  very  high  among  the  unacted 
dramatists  of  the  present  day,  and  they  are 
neither  small  nor  unsuccessful  as  a  body,  but 
he  needs  the  warm,  unconscious  humanity  of 
Shakspeare  to  melt  the  icy  intellect  in  the 
flowing  heart. 

If  we  fail  in  this  to  convey  a  lofty  idea  of 
Mr.  LANDOR'S  powers,  we  fail  of  our  mean- 
ing ;  we  are  enthusiasts  for  his  merits,  but 
they  are  for  the  few,  not  for  the  many  :  he 
is  sarcastical  and  satirical,  and  the  world,  'ye 
suspect,  will  take  him  for  a  misanthrope,  and 
pronounce  his  writings  impracticable.  As- 
suredly, they  are  not  popular,  but  they  are 
scholarlike  and  profound:  let  his  future  tians- 
lators  reconcile  the  difference.  They  can  build 
many  a  domestic  home  and  hearthstone  out  of 
his  one  pinnacled  marble  castle. 

*  Published  by  MOXON,  in  1831,  with  "Count  Julian" 
and  other  dramatic  and  minor  poems.  This,  with  two 
dramatic  pieces,  "Andrea  of  Hungary,"  and  "Giovanni 
of  Naples,"  printed  for  the  benefit  of  GRACE  DARLING, 
by  BENTLEY,  in  1839;  the  verses  in  his  prose  works, 
and  some  contributions  to  the  "AthfnaMim."  the  "Ex- 
aminer," and  to  the  Annuals,  are  his  only  published 
poems. 

1 2  101 


102 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR. 


TAMAR  RELATES  TO  GEBIR  HIS  FIRST 
ENCOUNTER  WITH  THE  NYMPH. 

"  'TWAS  evening,  tho'  not  sunset,  and  spring  tide, 
Level  with  these  green  meadows,  seem'd  still  higher. 
'Twas  pleasant ;  and  I  loosen'd  from  my  neck 
The  pipe  you  gave  me,  and  began  to  play. 
Oh  that  I  ne'er  had  learnt  the  tuneful  art ! 
It  always  brings  us  enemies  or  love  ! 
Well,  I  was  playing,  when  above  the  waves 
Some  swimmer's  head  methought  I  saw  ascend  ; 
I,  sitting  still,  survey'd  it,  with  my  pipe 
Awkwardly  held  before  my  lips  half-closed. 
Gebir !  it  was  a  nymph  !  a  nymph  divine  ! 
I  cannot  wait  describing  how  she  came, 
How  I  was  sitting,  how  she  first  assumed 
The  sailor  ;  of  what  happened  there  remains 
Enough  to  say,  and  too  much  to  forget. 
The  sweet  deceiver  stept  upon  this  bank 
Before  I  was  aware  ;  for  with  surprise 
Moments  fly  rapid  as  with  love  itself. 
Stooping  to  tune  afresh  the  hoarsen'd  reed, 
I  heard  a  rustling,  and  where  that  arose 
My  glance  first  lighted  on  her  nimble  feet. 
Her  feet  resembled  those  long  shells  explored 
By  him  who  to  befriend  his  steed's  dim  sight 
Would  blow  the  pungent  powder  in  the  eye. 
Her  eyes  too  !  O  immortal  gods  !  her  eyes 
Resembled — what  could  they  resemble  ?  what 
Ever  resemble  those  !     E'en  her  attire 
Was  not  of  wonted  woof  nor  vulgar  art  : 
Her  mantle  show'd  the  yellow  samphire-pod, 
Her  girdle,  the  dove-coloured  wave  serene. 
'Shepherd,'  said  she,  <and  will  you  wrestle  now, 
And  with  the  sailor's  hardier  race  engage  ?' 
I  was  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  and  contrived 
How  to  keep  up  contention ;  could  I  fail 
By  pressing  not  too  strongly,  yet  to  press  ? 
«  Whether  a  shepherd,  as  indeed  you  seem, ' 
Or  whether  of  the  hardier  race  you  boast, 
I  am  not  daunted  ;  no,  I  will  engage. 
But  first,'  said  she,  « what  wager  will  you  lay !' 
'  A  sheep,'  I  answered  ;  <  add  whate'er  vou  will.' 
'I  cannot,'  she  replied,  <  make  that  return  : 
Our  hided  vessels  in  their  pitchy  round 
Seldom,  unless  from  rapine,  hold  a  sheep. 
But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbibed 
In  the  sun's  palace  porch,  where,  when  unyoked, 
His  chariot-wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave : 
Shake  one,  and  it  awakens  ;  then  apply 
Its  polish'd  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 
And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 
And  I  have  others  given  me  by  the  nymphs, 
Of  sweeter  sound  than  any  pipe  you  have. 
But  we,  by  Neptune,  for  no  pipe  contend. 
This  time  a  sheep  I  win,  a  pipe  the  next.' 
Now  came  she  forward,  eager  to  engage, 
But  first  her  dress,  her  bosom  then  survey'd, 
And  heaved  it,  doubting  if  she  could  deceive. 
Her  bosom  seem'd,  enclosed  in  haze  like  heaven, 
To  baffle  touch,  and  rose  forth  undefined  : 
Above  her  knees  she  drew  the  robe  succinct, 


Above  her  breast,  and  just  below  her  arms. 

'  This  will  preserve  my  breath  when  tightly  bound, 

If  struggle  and  equal  strength  should  so  constrain.' 

Thus,  pulling  hard  to  fasten  it,  she  spake, 

And,  rushing  at  me,  closed:   I  thrill'd  throughout, 

And  seern'd  to  lessen  and  shrink  up  with  cold, 

Again  with  violent  impulse  gush'd  my  blood, 

And  hearing  naught  external,  thus  absorb'd, 

I  heard  it,  rushing  through  each  turbid  vein, 

Shake  my  unsteady  swimming  sight  in  air. 

Yet  with  unyielding  though  uncertain  arms 

I  clung  around  her  neck ;  the  vest  beneath 

Rustled  against  our  slippery  limbs  entwined : 

Often  mine  springing  with  eluded  force 

Started  aside,  and  trembled  till  replaced  : 

And  when  I  most  succeeded,  as  I  thought, 

My  bosom  an  1  my  throat  felt  so  comprest, 

That  life  was  almost  quivering  on  my  lips, 

Yet  nothing  was  there  painful !  There  are  signs 

Of  secret  arts  and  not  of  human  might — 

What  arts  I  cannot  tell.     I  only  know 

My  eyes  grew  dizzy,  and  my  strength  decay'd. 

I  was  indeed  o'ercome  !  with  what  regret, 

And  more,  with  what  confusion,  when  I  reached 

The  fold,  and  yielding  up  the  sheep,  she  cried: 

'  This  pays  a  shepherd  to  a  conquering  maid.' 

She  smiled,  and  more  of  pleasure  than  disdain 

Was  in  her  dimpled  chin  and  liberal  lip, 

And  eyes  that  languish'd  lengthening,  just  like  love. 

She  went  away  ;  I  on  the  wicker  gate 

Leant,  and  could  follow  with  my  eyes  alone. 

The  sheep  she  carried  easy  as  a  cloak ; 

But  when  I  heard  its  bleating,  as  I  did, 

And  saw,  she  hastening  on,  its  hinder  feet 

Struggle,  and  from  her  snowy  shoulder  slip — 

One  shoulder  its  poor  efforts  had  unveil'd — 

Then  all  my  passions  mingling  fell  in  tears ; 

Restless  then  ran  I  to  the  highest  ground 

To  watch  her — she  was  gone — gone  down  the  tide — 

And  the  long  moonbeam  on  the  hard  wet  sand 

Lay  like  a  jasper  column  half-uprear'd." 


PASSAGE  FROM  COUNT   JULIAN. 


Julian.  O  cruelty — to  them  indeed  the  least ! 
My  children,  ye  are  happy — ye  have  lived 
Of  heart  unconquered,  honour  unimpaired, 
And  died,  true  Spaniards,  loyal  to  the  last. 

Muza.  Away  with  him. 

Julian.  Slaves  !  not  before  I  lift 
My  voice  to  heaven  and  man  :  though  enemies 
Surround  me,  and  none  else,  yet  other  men 
And  other  times  shall  hear:  the  agony 
Of  an  opprest  and  of  a  bursting  heart 
No  violence  can  silence ;  at  its  voice 
The  trumpet  is  o'erpower'd,  and  glory  mute, 
And  peace  and  war  hide  all  their  charms  alike. 
Surely  the  guests  and  ministers  of  heaven 
Scatter  it  forth  thro'  all  the  elements; 
So  suddenly,  so  widely,  it  extends, 
So  fearfully  men  breathe  it.  shuddering 
Fo  ask  or  fancy  how  it  first  arose. 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR. 


103 


F^ESULAN  IDYL. 


HEHE,where  precipitate  Spring  with  one  light  bound 
Into  hot  Summer's  lusty  arms  expires; 
And  where  go  forth  at  morn,  at  eve,  at  night, 
Soft  airs,  that  want  the  lute  to  play  with  them, 
And  softer  sighs,  that  know  not  what  they  want  : 
Under  a  wall,  beneath  an  orange-tree, 
Whose  tallest  flowers  could  tell  the  lowlier  ones 
Of  sights  in  Fiesole  right  up  above, 
While  I  was  gazing  a  few  paces  off 
At  what  they  seemed  to  show  me  with  their  nods, 
Their  frequent  whispers  and  their  pointing  shoots, 
A  gentle  maid  came  down  the  garden  steps, 
And  gathered  the  pure  treasure  in  her  lap. 
I  heard  the  branches  rustle,  and  slept  forth 
To  drive  the  ox  away,  or  mule,  or  goat, 
(Such  I  believed  it  must  be;)   for  sweet  scents 
Are  the  swift  vehicles  of  still  sweeter  thoughts, 
And  nurse  and  pillow  the  dull  memory 
That  would  let  drop  without  them  her  best  stores. 
They  bring  me  tales  of  youth  and  tones  of  love, 
And  'tis  and  ever  was  my  wish  and  way 
To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die, 
Whene'er  their  genius  bid  their  souls  depart, 
Among  their  kindred  in  their  native  place. 
I  never  pluck  the  rose ;  the  violet's  head 
Hath  shaken  with  my  breath  upon  its  bank 
And  not  reproach'd  me  ;  the  ever  sacred  cup 
Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 
Felt  safe,  unsoil'd,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold. 
I  saw  the  light  that  made  the  glossy  leaves 
More  glossy ;  the  fair  arm,  the  fairer  cheek 
Warmed  by  the  eye  intent  on  its  pursuit; 
I  saw  the  foot,  that,  although  half-erect 
From  its  gray  slipper,  could  not  lift  her  up 
To  what  she  wanted :   I  held  down  a  branch 
And  gather'd  her  some  blossoms,  since  their  hour 
Was  come,  and  bees  had  wounded  them,  and  flies 
Of  harder  wing  were  working  their  way  through 
And  scattering  them  in  fragments  under  foot. 
Sr>  crisp  were  some,  they  rattled  unevolved, 
Others,  ere  broken  off,  fell  into  shells, 
For  such  appear  the  petals  when  detach'd, 
Unbending,  brittle,  lucid,  white  like  snow, 
And  like  snow  not  seen  through,  by  eye  or  sun: 
Yet  every  one  her  gown  received  from  me 
Was  fairer  than  the  first- — I  thought  not  so, 
But  so  she  praised  them  to  reward  my  care. 
I  said  :  "You  find  the  largest." 

"  This  indeed," 
Cried  she,  "  is  large  and  sweet." 

She  held  one  forth, 
Whether  for  me  to  look  at  or  to  take 
She  knew  not,  nor  did  I;  but  taking  it 
Would  best  have  solved  (and  this  she  felt)  her  doubts. 
I  dared  not  touch  it ;  for  it  seemed  a  part 
j!    Of  her  own  self;  fresh,  full,  the  most  mature 
J     Of  blossoms,  yet  a  blossom  ;   with  a  touch 
j    To  fall,  and  yet  unfallen. 

She  drew  back 

The  boon  she  tendered,  and  then,  finding  not 
The  ribbon  at  her  vvnist,  to  fix  it  in, 
Dropt  it,  as  loth  to  drop  it,  on  the  rest. 


TO  IANTHE. 

WHILK  the  winds  whistle  round  my  cheerless  room, 
And  the  pale  morning  droops  with  winter's  gloom; 
While  indistinct  lie  rude  and  cultured  lands, 
The  ripening  harvest  and  the  hoary  sands : 
Alone,  and  destitute  of  every  page 
That  fires  the  poet,  or  informs  the  sage, 
Where  shall  my  wishes,  where  my  fancy  rove, 
Rest  upon  past  or  cherish  promised  love  ] 
Alas  !   the  past  I  never  can  regain, 
Wishes  may  rise,  and  tears  may  flow  in  vain. 
Fancy,  that  shows  her  in  her  early  bloom, 
Throws  barren  sunshine  o'er  the  unyielding  tomb. 
What  then  would  passion,  what  would  reason  do] 
Sure,  to  retrace  is  worse  than  to  pursue. 
Here  will  I  sit,  'till  heaven  shall  cease  to  lour, 
And  happier  Hesper  bring  the  appointed  hour; 
Gaze  on  the  mingled  waste  of  sky  and  sea, 
Think  of  my  love,  and  bid  her  think  of  me. 


TO  CORINTH. 


T.N  of  the  double  sea,  beloved  of  him 
Who  shakes  the  world's  foundations,  thou  hast  seen 
Glory  in  all  her  beauty,  all  her  forms; 
Seen  her  walk  back  with  Theseus  when  he  left 
The  bones  of  Sciron  bleaching  to  the  wind, 
Above  the  ocean's  roar  and  cormorant's  flight, 
So  high  that  vastest  billows  from  above 
Show  but  like  herbage  waving  in  the  mead  ; 
Seen  generations  throng  thy  Isthmian  games, 
And  pass  away  —  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
And  them  who  sang  their  praises. 

But,  O  queen, 

Audible  still,  and  far  beyond  thy  cliffs, 
As  when  they  first  were  uttered,  are  those  words 
Divine  which  praised  the  valiant  and  the  just; 
And  tears  have  often  stopt,  upon  that  ridge 
So  perilous,  him  who  brought  before  his  eye 
The  Colchian  babes. 

"  Stay  !  spare  him  !  save  the  last  ! 
Medea  !  —  is  that  blood  ]  again  !  it  drops 
From  my  imploring  hand  upon  my  feet  !  — 
I  will  invoke  the  Eumenides  no  more. 
I  will  forgive  thee  —  bless  thee  —  bend  to  thee 
In  all  thy  wishes  —  do  but  thou,  Medea, 
Tell  me,  one  lives." 

"And  shall  I  too  deceive  ?" 
Cries  from  the  fiery  car  an  angry  voice; 
And  swifter  than  two  falling  stars  descend 
Two  breathless  bodies  —  warm,  soft,  motionless, 
As  flowers  in  stillest  noon  before  the  sun, 
They  lie  three  paces  from  him  —  such  they  lie 
As  when  he  left  them  sleeping  side  by  side, 
A  mother's  arm  round  each,  a  mother's  cheeks 
Between  them,  flushed  with  happiness  and  love. 
He  was  more  changed  than  they  were  —  doomed  to 

show 

Thee  and  the  stranger,  how  defaced  and  scarred 
Grief  bunts  us  down  the  precipice  of  years, 
And  whom  the  faithless  prey  upon  the  last. 


104 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR. 


To  give  the  inertest  masses  of  our  earth 
Her  loveliest  forms  was  thine,  to  fix  the  gods 
Within  thy  walls,  and  hang  their  tripods  round 
With  fruits  and  foliage  knowing  not  decay. 
A  nobler  work  remains  :  thy  citadel 
Invites  all  Greece  ;  o'er  lands  and  floods  remote 
Many  are  the  hearts  that  still  beat  high  for  thee  : 
Confide  then  in  thy  strength,  and  unappalled 
Look  down  Opon  the  plain,  while  yokemate  kings 
Run  bellowing,  where  their  herdsmen  goad  them  on ; 
Instinct  is  sharp  in  them,  and  terror  true — 
They  smell  the  floor  whereon  their  necks  must  lie. 


STANZAS. 

SAT  ye,  that  years  roll  on  and  ne'er  return  ? 
Say  ye,  the  sun  who  leaves  them  all  behind, 
Their  great  creator,  cannot  bring  one  back 
With  all  his  force,  though  he  draw  worlds  around  1 
Witness  me,  little  streams  !  that  meet  before 
My  happy  dwelling;  witness,  Africo 
And  Mensola  !  that  ye  have  seen  at  once 
Twenty  roll  back,  twenty  as  swift  and  bright 
As  are  your  swiftest  and  your  brightest  waves, 
When  the  tall  cypress  o'er  the  Doccia 
Hurls  from  his  inmost  boughs  the  latent  snow. 

Go,  and  go  happy,  pride  of  my  past  days 
And  solace  of  my  present,  thou  whom  fate 
Alone  hath  sever'd  from  me  !  One  step  higher 
Must  yet  be  mounted,  high  as  was  the  last  : 
Friendship,  with  faltering  accent,  says  depart ! 
And  take  the  highest  seat  below  the  crown'd. 


WORSHIP  GOD  ONLY. 

Ines.  Revere  our  holy  church ;   though  some 

within 

Have  erred,  and  some  are  slow  to  lead  us  right, 
Stopping  to  pry  when  staff  and  lamp  should  be 
In  hand,  and  the  way  whiten  underneath. 

Pedro.  Ines,  the  church  is  now  a  charnel-house, 
Where  all  that  is  not  rottenness  is  drowth. 
Thou  hast  but  seen  its  gate  hung  round  with  flowers, 
And  heard  the  music  whose  serenest  waves 
Cover  its  gulfs  and  dally  with  its  shoals, 
And  hold  the  myriad  insects  in  light  play 
Above  it,  loth  to  leave  its  sunny  sides. 
Look  at  this  central  edifice  !  come  close ! 
Men's  bones  and  marrow  its  materials  are, 
Men's  groans  inaugurated  it,  men's  tears 
Sprinkle  its  floor,  fires  lighted  up  with  men 
Are  censers  for  it ;  agony  and  anger 
Surround  it  night  and  day  with  sleepless  eyes ; 
Dissimulation,  terror,  treachery, 
Denunciations  of  the  child,  the  parent, 
The  sister,  brother,  lover,  (mark  me,  Ines !) 
Are  the  peace-offerings  God  receives  from  it. 

Ines.  I  tremble — but  betrayers  tremble  more. 
Now  cease,  cease,  Pedro!  cling  I  must  to  somewhat: 
Leave  me  one  guide,  one  rest !  Let  me  love  God ! 
Alone — if  it  must  be  so  ! 

Pedro.  Him  alone — 
Mind ;  in  him  only  place  thy  trust  henceforth. 


THE  TAMED  DORMOUSE. 

THERE  is  a  creature,  dear  to  Heaven, 
Tiny  and  weak,  to  whom  is  given 
To  enjoy  the  world  while  suns  are  bright, 
And  shut  grim  winter  from  its  sight — 
Tamest  of  hearts  that  beat  on  wilds, 
Tamer  and  tenderer  than  a  child's — 
The  Dormouse — this  he  loved  and  taught 
(Docile  it  is  the  day  it's  caught, 
And  fond  of  music,  voice  or  string) 
To  stand  before  and  hear  her  sing, 
Or  lie  within  her  palm  half-closed, 
Until  another's  interposed, 
And  claim'd  the  alcove  wherein  it  lay, 
Or  held  it  with  divided  sway. 


TO  A  DEAD  CHILD. 

CHILD  of  a  day,  thou  knowest  not 
The  tears  that  overflow  thy  urn, 

The  gushing  eyes  that  read  thy  lot, 
Nor,  if  thou  knewest,  couldst  return  ! 

And  why  the  wish  ?  the  pure  and  blest 
Watch  like  thy  mother  o'er  thy  sleep ; 

O  peaceful  night !  O  envied  rest ! 
Thou  wilt  not  ever  see  her  weep. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SOUTHEY. 

NOT  ^the  last  struggle  of  the  sun, 
Precipitated  from  his  golden  throne, 
Hold  darkling  mortals  in  sublime  suspense, 
But  the  calm  exod  of  a  man 
Nearer,  though  high  above,  who  ran 
The  race  we  run,  when  Heaven  recalls  him  hence. 

Thus,  O  thou  pure  of  earthly  taint! 
Thus,  O  my  SOUTH  ET  !  poet,  sage,  and  saint, 
Thou,  after  saddest  silence,  art  removed. 

What  voice  in  anguish  can  we  raise  ? 

Thee  would  we,  need  we,  dare  we  praise  ? 
God  now  does  that — the  God  thy  whole  heart  loved. 


SIXTEEN. 

IN  Clementina's  artless  mien 

Lucilla  asks  me  what  I  see, 
And  are  the  roses  of  sixteen 

Enough  for  me  1 

Lucilla  asks,  if  that  be  all ; 

Have  I  not  cull'd  as  sweet  before — 
Ah,  yes,  Lucilla !  and  their  fall 
I  still  deplore. 

I  now  behold  another  scene. 

Where  pleasure  beams  with  heaven's  own  light, 
More  pure,  more  constant,  more  serene, 
And  not  less  bright. 

Faith,  on  whose  breast  the  loves  repose, 

Whose  chain  of  flowers  no  force  can  sever ; 
And  modesty,  who,  when  she  goes, 
Is  gone  for  ever. 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR. 


105 


REPENTANCE  OF  KING  RODERIGO. 

THERE  is,  I  hear,  a  poor  half-ruined  cell 
In  Xeres,  whither  few  indeed  resort ; 
Green  are  the  walls  within,  green  is  the  floor 
And  slippery  from  disuse  ;  for  Christian  feet 
Avoid  it,  as  half-holy,  half-accurst. 
Still  in  its  dark  recess  fanatic  sin 
Abases  to  the  ground  his  tangled  hair, 
And  servile  scourges  and  reluctant  groans 
Roll  o'er  the  vault  uninterruptedly, 
Till,  such  the  natural  stillness  of  the  place, 
The  very  tear  upon  the  damps  below 
Drops  audible,  and  the  heart's  throb  replies. 
There  is  the  idol  maid  of  Christian  creed, 
And  taller  images,  whose  history 
I  know  not,  nor  inquired — a  scene  of  blood, 
Of  resignation  amid  mortal  pangs, 
And  other  things,  exceeding  all  belief. 
Hither  the  aged  Opas  of  Seville 
Walked  slowly,  and  behind  him  was  a  man 
Barefooted,  bruised,  dejected,  comfortless, 
In  sackcloth  ;  the  white  ashes  on  his  head 
Dropt  as  he  smote  his  breast ;  he  gathered  up, 
Replaced  them  all,  groan'd  deeply,  looked  to  heaven, 
And  held  them,  like  a  treasure,  with  claspt  hands. 


MORNING. 

Now  to  Aurora  borne  by  dappled  steeds, 
The  sacred  gate  of  orient  pearl  and  gold, 
Smitten  with  Lucifer's  light  silver  wand, 
Expanded  slow  to  strains  of  harmony  ; 
The  waves  beneath  in  purpling  rows,  like  doves 
Glancing  with  wanton  coyness  tow'rd  their  queen, 
Heaved  softly  ;  thus  the  damsel's  bosom  heaves 
When  from  her  sleeping  lover's  downy  cheek, 
To  which  so  warily  her  own  she  brings 
Each  moment  nearer,  she  perceives  the  warmth 
Of  coming  kisses  fann'd  by  playful  dreams. 
Ocean  and  earth  arid  heaven  was  jubilee. 
For  'twas  the  morning  pointed  out  by  fate 
When  an  immortal  maid  and  mortal  man 
Should  share  each  other's  nature  knit  in  bliss. 


CLIFTON. 

CLIFTOX,  in  vain  thy  varied  scenes  invite — 
The  mossy  bank,  dim  glade,  and  dizzy  height ; 
The  sheep,  that,  starting  from  the  tufted  thyme, 
Untune  the  distant  churches'  mellow  chime  ; 
As  o'er  each  limb  a  gentle  horror  creeps, 
And  shake  above  our  heads  the  craggy  steeps. 
Pleasant  I've  thought  it  to  pursue  the  rower 
While  light  and  darkness  seize  the  changeful  oar ; 
The  frolic  Naiads  drawing  from  below 
A  net  of  silver  round  the  black  canoe. 
Now  the  last  lonely  solace  must  it  be 
To  watch  pale  evening  brood  o'er  land  and  sea. 
Then  join  my  friends,  and  let  those 'friends  believe 
My  cheeks  are  moistened  by  the  dews  of  eve. 
14 


PASSAGE  FROM   IPPOLITO  DI  ESTE. 

Ippolito.    He  saw  his  error. 

Ferrante.    All  men  do  when  age 
Bends  down  their  heads,  or  gold  shines  in  their  way. 

Ippolito.    Although  I  would  have  helpt  you  in 

distress, 

And  just  removed  you  from  the  court  awhile, 
You  called  me  tyrant. 

Ferrante.    Called  thee  tyrant  ]     I  ? 
By  heaven  !  in  tyrant  there  is  something  great 
That  never  was  in  thee.     I  would  be  killed 
Rather  by  any  monster  of  the  wild 
Than  choked  by  weeds  and  quicksands  rather 

crush'd 

By  maddest  rage  than  clay-cold  apathy. 
Those  who  act  well  the  tyrant,  neither  seek 
Nor  shun  the  name :  and  yet  I  wonder  not 
That  thou  repeatest  it,  and  wishest  me ; 
It  sounds  like  power,  like  policy,  like  courage. 
And  none  that  calls  thee  tyrant  can  despise  thee. 
Go,  issue  orders  for  imprisonment, 
Warrants  for  death :  the  gibbet  and  the  wheel, 
Lo  !  the  grand  boundaries  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Oh  what  a  mighty  office  for  a  minister  ! 
(And  such  Alfonso's  brother  calls  himself), 
To  be  the  scribe  of  hawkers  !  Man  of  genius  ! 
The  lanes  and  allies  echo  with  thy  works. 


A  CATHEDRAL  SCENE. 

Now  all  the  people  follow  the  procession : 
Here  may  I  walk  alone,  and  let  my  spirits 
Enjoy  the  coolness  of  these  quiet  ailes. 
Surely  no  air  is  stirring ;  every  step 
Tires  me ;  the  columns  shake,  the  ceiling  fleets, 
The  floor  beneath  me  slopes,  the  altar  rises. 
Stay! — here  she  stept — what  grace!  what  harmony  ! 
It  seemed  that  every  accent,  every  note, 
Of  all  the  choral  music,  breathed  from  her: 
From  her  celestial  airiness  of  form 
I  could  have  fancied  purer  light  descended. 
Between  the  pillars,  close  and  wearying, 
I  watcht  her  as  she  went :  I  had  rusht  on — 
It  was  too  late ;  yet,  when  I  stopt,  I  thought 
I  stopt  full  soon  :  I  cried,  Is  she  not  there  1 
She  had  been :  I  had  seen  her  shadow  burst 
The  sunbeam  as  she  parted  :  a  strange  sound, 
A  sound  that  stupefied  and  not  aroused  me, 
Filled  all  my  senses ;  such  was  never  felt 
Save  when  the  sword-girt  angel  struck  the  gate, 
And  Paradise  wail'd  loud,  and  closed  for  ever. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  POET  IN  A  WELSH 
CHURCHYARD. 

KTYD  souls!  who  strive  what  pious  hand  shall  bring 
The  first-found  crocus  from  reluctant  spring, 
Or  blow  your  wintry  fingers  while  they  strew 
This  sunless  turf  with  rosemary  and  rue, 
Bend  o'er  your  lovers  first,  but  mind  to  save 
One  sprig  of  each  to  trim  a  poet's  grave. 


106 


WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR. 


THE  MAID'S  LAMENT. 

I  LOVED  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I  check'd  him  while  he  spoke  ;  yet,  could  he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 

For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :   I  now  would  give 

My  love  could  he  hut  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and,  when  he  found 

'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death  ! 

I  waste  for  him  my  hreath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me  !  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lorn  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :  for  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears  ! 

"  Merciful  God  !"  such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

"  These  may  she  never  share  !" 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  churchyard  gate, 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you  be, 

And,  oh  !  pray,  too,  for  me  ! 


THE  BRIER. 

MY  brier  that  smelledst  sweet, 
When  gentle  spring's  first  heat, 
Ran  through  thy  quiet  veins ; 
Thou  that  couldst  injure  none, 
But  wouldst  be  left  alone, 
Alone  thou  leavest  me,  and  naught  of  thine  remains. 

What !    hath  no  poet's  lyre 
O'er  thee  sweet  breathing  brier, 

Hung  fondly,  ill  or  well  1 
And  yet,  methinks  with  thee, 
A  poet's  sympathy, 
Whether  in  weal  or  wo,  in  life  or  death,  might  dwell. 

Hard  usage  both  must  bear, 
Few  hands  your  youth  will  rear, 

Few  bosoms  cherish  you; 
Your  tender  prime  must  bleed 
Ere  you  are  sweet,  but  freed  [too. 

From  life,  you  then  are  prized ;  thus  prized  are  poets 


THE  DRAGON-FLY. 

LIFK  (priest  and  poet  say)  is  but  a  dream ; 
I  wish  no  happier  one  than  to  be  laid 
Beneath  some  cool  syringa's  scented  shade : 

Or  wavy  willow,  by  the  running  stream, 
Brimful  of  moral,  where  the  dragon-fly 
Wanders  as  careless  and  content  as  I. 

Thanks  for  this  fancy,  insect  king, 

Of  purple  crest  and  meshy  wing, 

Who,  with  indifference,  givest  up 

The  water-lily's  golden  cup, 

To  come  again  and  overlook 

What  I  am  writing  in  my  book. 

Believe  me,  most  who  read  the  line 

Will  read  with  hornier  eyes  than  thine ; 

And  yet  their  souls  shall  live  for  ever, 

And  thine  drop  dead  into  the  river ! 

God  pardon  them,  O  insect  king, 

Who  fancy  so  unjust  a  thing  ! 


AN  ARAB  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

LOOK  thou  yonder,  look  and  tremble, 
Thou  whose  passion  swells  so  high ; 

See  those  ruins  !  that  resemble 
Flocks  of  camels  as  they  lie. 

'T  was  a  fair  but  froward  city, 
Bidding  tribes  and  chiefs  obey, 

Till  he  came,  who,  deaf  to  pity, 
Tost  the  imploring  arm  away. 

Spoil'd  and  prostrate,  she  lamented 
What  her  pride  and  folly  wrought : 

But  was  ever  Pride  contented, 
Or  would  Folly  e'er  be  taught  ? 

Strong  are  cities ;  Rage  o'erthrows  'em  ; 

Rage  o'erswells  the  gallant  ship  ; 
Stains  it  not  the  cloud-white  bosom, 

Flaws  it  not  the  ruby  lip  1 

All  that  shields  us,  all  that  charms  us, 
Brow  of  ivory,  tower  of  stone, 

Yield  to  Wrath ;  another's  harms  us, 
But  we  perish  by  our  own. 

Night  may  send  to  rave  and  ravage 

Panther  and  hyena  fell ; 
But  their  manners,  harsh  and  savage, 

Little  suit  the  mild  gazelle. 

When  the  waves  of  life  surround  thee, 
Quenching  oft  the  light  of  love, 

When  the  clouds  of  doubt  confound  thee, 
Drive  not  from  thy  breast  the  dove. 


JOHN     LEYDEN. 


DR.  LEYDEN  was  born  at  Denholm,  a  village 
on  the  borders  of  Teviotdale,  in  Scotland,  in 
the  autumn  of  1775.     His  father  was  a  shep- 
herd farmer,  whose  humble  cottage  was  the 
home  of  piety  and  content.     Young  LEYDEN 
entered  the  parish  school  of  Kirk  town  when 
nine  years  of  age,  and  continued  his  studies 
there  for  about  three  years,  when  he  was  re- 
moved to  a  private  academy  kept  by  a  Came- 
ronian  clergyman  who  prepared  him  for  the 
university.     At  Edinburgh  he  was  a  member 
of  literary  societies  with  Lord  BROUGHAM,  Dr. 
THOMAS  BROWN,  Lord  JEFFREY,  and  the  Rev. 
SIDNEY  SIMITH.     After  completing  his  classi- 
cal course  with  distinguished  reputation,  he 
studied  theology,  and  in  1795  wras  licensed  to 
preach  by  the  Presbytery  of  St.  Andrews.    He 
did  not  succeed  very  well  in  the  pulpit,  and 
soon  abandoned  it  to  enter  upon  a  literary  life. 
His  first  production  was  an  "  Historical  and 
Descriptive  Account  of  Discoveries  in  Africa," 
published  in  1798,  and  his  second,  an  edition 
of  "The  Complaynt  of  Scotland,"  an  old  and 
scarce  tract,  to  which  he  added  an  elaborate 
preliminary  essay  and  a  glossary.     In  1799 
he  became  acquainted  with  SCOTT,  to  whom 
he  gave  valuable  aid  in  the  preparation  of 
"The    Minstrelsy  of  the   Scottish  Border," 
which  appeared  in  1801.     In   1802,   having 
previously  obtained  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Medicine  from  the  university  of  St.  Andrews, 
he  went  to  London  with  a  view  to  embark 
for  India,  and  while  there  prepared  for  the 
press  his  "  Scenes  of  Infancy,"  a  poem  of 
considerable  merit,  in  which  he  combines  in- 
teresting allusions  to  local  history  and  super- 
stition with  graphic  description  of  the  scenery 
amid  which  he  passed  his  early  years.     Of 
this  poem  it  has  been  said  by  a  judicious 
critic,  that  "in  genuine  feeling  and  fancy,  as 
well  as  in  harmony  and  elegance  of  composi- 
tion, it  can  encounter  very  few  rivals  in  the 
English  language.     It  touches  so  many  of  the 
genuine  strings  of  the  lyre,  with  the  hand  of 
inspiration ;    it  draws  forth  so  many  tender 
notes,  and  carries  our  eyes  and  our  hearts  so 
utterly  among  those  scenes  with  which  the 
real  bard  is  conversant,  that  we  for  a  moment 


enjoy  some  portion  of  the  creative  powers  of 
the  poet  himself.  Nowhere  laboured,  studied, 
or  affected,  he  writes  in  a  stream  of  natural 
eloquence,  which  shows  the  entire  predomi- 
nance of  his  emotion  over  his  art." 

Dr.  LEYDEN  sailed  for  Madras  in  the  spring 
of  1803,  and  immediately  after  his  arrival 
entered  the  service  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany, in  which  he  continued  the  larger  portion 
of  the  time  until  his  death.  He  devoted  the 
intervals  of  business,  when  health  permitted, 
to  the  laborious  study  of  the  literature  and 
languages  of  the  eastern  nations.  He  made 
elegant  translations  from  the  Persian,  Arabic, 
and  Sanscrit,  wrote  several  valuable  philologi- 
cal tracts,  and  grammars  of  the  Malay,  Pracrit 
and  other  languages. 

In  1810  he  resigned  the  office  of  Com- 
missioner of  Requests,  and  was  preferred  to 
that  of  Assayer  of  the  Mint  at  Calcutta,  with 
less  arduous  duties  and  a  more  liberal  salary. 
In  1811  his  services  were  required  in  the  ex- 
pedition against  Java,  and  he  sailed  from  Cal- 
cutta under  Lord  MINTO  on  the  ninth  of  March 
in  that  year.  After  Batavia  fell  into  the  pos- 
session of  the  Company's  forces,  he  employed 
his  leisure  in  researches  into  the  literature  of 
the  conquered  city.  He  one  day  entered  a 
large  low  room  in  one  of  the  public  buildings 
which  was  said  to  contain  some  Javanese 
curiosities,  and  the  confined  air  of  which  was 
impregnated  with  the  poisonous  quality  which 
has  made  Batavia  the  grave  of  so  many  Eu- 
ropeans. On  leaving  it  he  was  suddenly 
affected  with  the  first  symptoms  of  a  mortal 
fever,  of  which  he  died  on  the  twenty-eighth 
of  August,  in  the  thirty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 
LEYDEN  is  said  to  have  been  pedantic  and 
vain;  but  he  had  many  admirable  social 
qualities,  and  those  who  were  most  intimately 
acquainted  with  his  character  were  his  warm- 
est friends.  Sir  WALTER  SCOTT  alludes  to 
him  in  the  following  lines  from  the  "Lord  of 
the  Isles,"  written  soon  after  his  death : — 
His  bright  and  brief  career  is  o'er, 

And  unite  his  tuneful  strains  ; 
Quench'd  is  his  lamp  of  varied  lore, 
That  loved  the  light  of  song  to  pour ; — 
A  distant  and  a  deadly  shore 
Has  LEVDEN'S  cold  remains  ! 

Vtt 


108 


JOHN    LEYDEN. 


ODE  TO  JEHOVAH. 

Ix  high  JEHOVAH'S  praise,  my  strain 
Of  triumph  shall  the  chorus  lead, 

WHO  plunged  beneath  the  rolling  main 
The  horseman  with  his  vaunted  steed. 
Dread  breaker  of  our  servile  chains, 
By  WHOM  our  arm  in  strength  remains, 

The  scented  algum  forms  THY  car ! 

Our  father's  GOD  !  THY  name  we  raise 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  mortal  praise, 

The  Chieftain  and  the  Lord  of  war. 

Far  in  the  caverns  of  the  deep 

Their  chariots  sunk  to  rise  no  more ; 

And  Pharaoh's  mighty  warriors  sleep 

Where  the  Red  Sea's  huge  monsters  roar. 
Plunged  like  a  rock  amid  the  wave, 
Around  their  heads  the  billows  lave; 

Down,  down  the  yawning  gulf  they  go, 
Dash'd  by  THY  high-expanded  hand 
To  pieces  on  the  pointed  sand, 

That  strews  the  shelving  rocks  below. 

What  lambent  lightnings  round  THEE  gleam, 
Tur  foes  in  blackening  heaps  to  strew  ! 

As  o'er  wide  fields  of  stubble  stream 
The  flames,  in  undulations  blue. 
And  lo  !   the  waters  of  the  deep 
Swell  in  one  enormous  heap, 

Collected  at  THY  nostrils'  breath. 
The  bosom  of  the  abyss  reveal'd, 
Wall'd  with  huge  crystal  waves  congeal'd, 

Unfolds  the  yawning  jaws  of  death. 

«  Swift,  steeds  of  Egypt,  speed  your  course, 
And  swift,  ye  rapid  chariots,  roll ! 

Not  ocean's  bed  impedes  our  force ; 

Red  vengeance  soon  shall  glut  our  soul : 
The  sabre  keen  shall  soon  embrue 
Its  glimmering  edge  in  gory  dew" — 

Impatient  cried  the  exulting  foe  ; — 
When,  like  a  ponderous  mass  of  lead, 
They  sink — and  sudden,  o'er  their  head 

The  bursting  waves  impetuous  flow. 

But  THOU,  in  whose  sublime  abode 
Resistless  might  and  mercy  dw«ll, 

Our  voices,  high  o'er  every  God, 

With  grateful  hearts  THY  praises  swell  ! 
Outstretch'd  we  saw  THY  red  right  hand, 
The  earth  her  solid  jaws  expand; 

Adown  the  gulf  alive  they  sink : — 

While  we,  within  the  incumbent  main, 
Beheld  the  tumbling  floods  in  vain 

Storm  on  our  narrow  pathway's  brink. 

But,  far  as  fame's  shrill  notes  resound, 
With  dire  dismay  the  nations  hear ; 

Old  Edom's  sons  with  laurels  crown'd, 
And  Moab's  warriors  melt  with  fear. 
The  petrifying  tale  disarms 
The  might  of  Canaan's  countless  swarms, 

Appall' (1  their  heroes  sink  supine ; 
No  mail'd  band  with  thrilling  cries 
The  might  of  Jacob's  sons  defies, 

That  moves  to  conquer  Palestine. 


Nor  burning  sands  our  way  impede, 
Where  nature's  glowing  embers  lie ; 

But,  led  by  THEE,  we  safely  tread 
Beneath  the  furnace  of  the  sky. 
To  fields,  where  fertile  olives  twine 
Their  branches  with  the  clustering  vine 

Soon  shalt  THOU  Jacob's  armies  bring ; 
To  plant  them  by  THY  mighty  hand 
Where  the  proud  towers  of  Salem  stand ; 

And  ever  reign  their  GOD  and  King. 

Far  in  the  deep's  unfathom'd  caves 

Lie  strew'd  the  flower  of  Mazur's  land, 

Save  when  the  surge,  that  idly  raves, 
Heaves  their  cold  corses  on  the  sand. 
With  courage  uuappall'd,  in  vain 
They  rush'd  within  the  channell'd  main; 

Their  heads  the  billows  folded  o'er : 
While  THOU  hast  Israel's  legions  led 
Through  the  green  ocean's  coral  bed, 

To  ancient  Edom's  palmy  shore. 


ODE  TO  AN  INDIAN  GOLD  COIN. 

WRITTEN    IN    CHERICAL,   MALABAR. 

SLAVE  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine  ! 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  1 
How  can  T  love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright,  whom  I  have  bought  so  dear  1— 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arm ; 

The  jackal's  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  charm. 

By  Chericul's  dark  wandering  streams, 
Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild, 

Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 
Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  a  child, 
Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 

By  Esk  or  Eden's  classic  wave, 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendship  smiled, 

Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Fade,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory  fade  ! — 

The  perish'd  bliss  of  youth's  first  prime, 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  play'd, 

Revives  no  more  in  after  time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 
I  haste  to  an  untimely  grave ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soar'd  sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine !  thy  yellow  light 

Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear. — 
A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely  widow'd  heart  to  cheer ; 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a  tear, 
That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine : 

Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a  fear  ! — 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 

I  left  a  heart  that  loved  me  true  ! 
I  cross'd  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 

To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 


JOHN    LEYDEN. 


109 


The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 
Chill  on  rny  wither'd  heart : — the  grave 

Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view — 
And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Ha !  comest  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 
A  wanderer's  banish'd  heart  forlorn, 

Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 
Of  sun-rays  tipt  with  death  has  borne  1 
From  love,  from  friendship,  country,  torn, 

To  memory's  fond  regrets  the  prey, 
Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I  scorn ! 

Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kiudred  clay  ! 


PORTUGUESE  HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

WRITTEN    AT    SEA. 

STAR  of  the  wide  and  pathless  sea, 

Who  lovest  on  mariners  to  shine, 
These  votive  garments  wet,  to  thee, 

We  hang  within  thy  holy  shrine. 

When  o'er  us  flash'd  the  surging  brine, 
Amid  the  waving  waters  toss'd, 

We  call'd  no  other  name  but  thine, 
And  hoped  when  other  hope  was  lost. 

Ave  Maris  Stella! 

Star  of  the  vast  and  howling  main  ! 

When  dark  and  lone  is  all  the  sky, 
And  mountain  waves  o'er  ocean's  plain 

Erect  their  stormy  heads  on  high, 

When  virgins  for  their  true  loves  sigh 
They  raise  their  weeping  eyes  to  thee ; — 

The  star  of  ocean  heeds  their  cry, 
And  saves  the  foundering  bark  at  sea. 

Ave  Maris  Stella ! 

Star  of  the  dark  and  stormy  sea ! 

When  wrecking  tempests  round  us  rave, 
Thy  gentle  virgin  form  we  see 

Bright  rising  o'er  the  hoary  wave, 

The  howling  storms  that  seemed  to  crave 
Their  victims,  sink  in  music  sweet ; 

The  surging  seas  recede  to  pave 
The  path  beneath  thy  glistening  feet. 

Ave  Maris  Stella ! 

Star  of  the  desert  waters  wild, 

Who  pitying  hear'st  the  seaman's  cry  ! 
The  God  of  mercy  as  a  child 

On  that  chaste  bosom  loves  to  lie ; 

While  soft  the  chorus  of  the  sky 
Their  hymns  of  tender  mercy  sing, 

And  angel  voices  name  on  high 
The  mother  of  the  heavenly  king. 

Ave  Maris  Stella ! 

Star  of  the  deep  !  at  that  blest  name 

The  waves  sleep  silent  round  the  keel, 
The  tempests  wild  their  fury  tame, 

That  made  the  deep's  foundations  reel ; 

The  soft  celestial  accents  steal 
So  soothing  through  the  realms  of  woe, 

The  newly  damn'd  a  respite  feel 
From  torture  in  the  depths  below. 

Ave  Maris  Stella ! 


Star  of  the  mild  and  placid  seas ! 

Whom  rainbow  rays  of  mercy  crown, 
Whose  name  thy  faithful  Portuguese, 

O'er  all  that  to  the  depths  go  down, 

With  hymns  of  grateful  transport  own, 
When  clouds  obscure  all  other  light, 

And  heaven  assumes  an  awful  frown, 
The  star  of  ocean  glitters  bright. 

Ave  Maris  Stella ! 

Star  of  the  deep !  when  angel  lyres 

To  hymn  thy  holy  name  essay, 
In  vain  a  mortal  harp  aspires 

To  mingle  in  the  mighty  lay ; 

Mother  of  God  !  one  living  ray 
Of  hope  our  grateful  bosoms  fires — 

When  storms  and  tempests  pass  away, 
To  join  the  bright  immortal  choirs. 

Ave  Maris  Stella ! 


THE  MEMORY  OF   THE  PAST. 

ALAS,  that  fancy's  pencil  still  portrays 
A  fairer  scene  than  ever  nature  drew  ! 
Alas,  that  ne'er  to  reason's  placid  view- 
Arise  the  charms  of  youth's  delusive  days  ! 
For  still  the  memory  of  our  tender  years, 
By  contrast  vain,  impairs  our  present  joys  ; 
Of  greener  fields  we  dream  and  purer  skies, 
And  softer  tints  than  ever  nature  wears. — 
Lo  !  now,  to  fancy,  Teviot's  vale  appears 
Adorn'd  with  flowers  of  more  enchanting  hue 
And  fairer  bloom  than  ever  Eden  knew, 

With  all  the  charms  that  infancy  endears. 
Dear  scenes!  which  grateful  memory  still  employ, 
Why  should  you  strive  to  blast  the  present  joy] 


A  MORNING  SCENE. 

Lo  !  in  the  vales,  where  wandering  rivulets  run, 
The  fleecy  mists  shine  gilded  in  the  sun, 
Spread  their  loose  folds,  till  now  the  lagging  gale, 
Unfurls  no  more  its  lightly  skimming  sail ; 
But  through  the  hoary  flakes,  that  fall  like  snow, 
Gleams  in  ethereal  hue  the  watery  bow. 
'Tis  ancient  silence,  robed  in  thistle  down, 
Whose  snowy  locks  its  fairy  circles  crown  ; 
His  vesture  moves  not,  as  he  hovers  lone, 
While  curling  fogs  compose  his  airy  throne; 
Serenely  still,  self-pois'd,  he  rests  on  high, 
And  soothes  each  infant  breeze  that  fans  the  sky. 
The  mists  ascend  ; — the  mountains  scarce  are  free, 
Like  islands  floating  in  a  billowy  sea ; 
While  on  their  chalky  summits  glimmering  dance 
The  sun's  last  rays  across  the  gray  expanse : 
As  sink  the  hills  in  waves  that  round  them  grow, 
The  hoary  surges  scale  the  cliff's  tall  brow ; 
The  fleecy  billows  o'er  its  head  are  hurl'd, 
As  ocean  once  embraced  the  prostrate  world. 


110 


JOHN    LEYDEN. 


CHANGES  OF   HOME. 

As  every  prospect  opens  on  my  view, 
I  seetn'd  to  live  departed  years  anew  ; 
When  in  these  wilds  a  jocund,  sportive  child, 
Each  flower  self-sown  my  heedless  hours  beguiled ; 
The  wahret  leaf,  that  by  the  pathway  grew, 
The  wild-briar  rose,  of  pale  and  blushful  hue, 
The  thistle's  rolling  wheel,  of  silken  down, 
The  blue-bell,  or  the  daisy's  pearly  crown, 
The  gaudy  butterfly,  in  wanton  round, 
That,  like  a  living  pea-flower,  skimtn'd  the  ground  ! 

Again  I  view  each  rude  romantic  glade, 
Where  once  with  tiny  steps  my  childhood  stray'd 
To  watch  the  foam-bell  of  the  bubbling  brook, 
Or  mark  the  motions  of  the  clamorous  rook, 
Who  saw  her  nest,  close  thatch'd  with  ceaseless  toil, 
At  summer  eve  become  the  woodman's  spoil  ! 

Green  down  ascending  drink  the  moorish  rills, 
And  yellow  corn-fields  crown  the  heathless  hills, 
Where  to  the  breeze  the  shrill  brown  linnet  sings, 
And  prunes  with  frequent  bill  his  russet  wings. 
High  and  more  high  the  shepherds  drive  their  flocks, 
And  climb  with  tirnid  step  the  hoary  rocks; 
From  clitf  to  cliff  the  ruffling  breezes  sigh, 
Where  idly  on  the  sun-beat  steeps  they  lie, 
And  wonder,  that  the  vale  no  more  displays 
The  pastoral  scenes  that  pleased  their  early  days. 

No  more  the  cottage  roof,  fern-thatch'd  and  gray, 
Invites  the  weary  traveller  from  the  way, 
To  rest,  and  taste  the  peasant's  simple  cheer, 
Repaid  by  news  and  tales  he  loved  to  hear; 
The  clay-built  wall,  with  woodbine  twisted  o'er, 
The  house-leek  clustering  green  above  the  door, 
While  through  the   sheltering  elms,  that  round 

them  grew, 

The  winding  smoke  arose  in  columns  blue; — 
These  all  have  fled  ;  and  from  their  hamlets  brown 
The  swains  have  gone,  to  sicken  in  the  town, 
To  pine  in  crowded  streets,  or  ply  the  loom ; 
For  splendid  halls  deny  the  cottage  room. 
Yet  on  the  neighbouring  heights  they  oft  convene, 
With  fond  regret  to  view  each  former  scene, 
The  level  meads,  where  infants  wont  to  play 
Around  their  mothers,  as  they  piled  the  hay, 
The  hawthorn  hedge-row,  and  the  hanging  wood, 
Beneath  whose  boughs  their  humble  cottage  stood. 

Gone  are  the  peasants  from  the  humble  shed, 
And  with  them  too  the  humble  virtues  fled. 
No  more  the  farmer,  on  these  fertile  plains, 
Is  held  the  father  of  the  meaner  swains, 
Partakes,  as  he  directs,  the  reaper's  toil, 
Or  with  his  shining  share  divides  the  soil, 
Or  in  his  hall,  when  winter  nights  are  long, 
Joins  in  the  burden  of  the  damsel's  song, 
Repeats  the  tales  of  old  heroic  times, 
While  Bruce  and  Wallace  consecrate  the  rhymes. 
These  all  are  fled — and,  in  the  farmer's  place, 
Of  prouder  look,  advance  a  dubious  race, 
That  ape  the  pride  of  rank  with  awkward  state 
The  vice,  but  not  the  polish  of  the  great, 
Flaunt,  like  the  poppy  mid  the  ripening  grain, 
A  nauseous  weed,  that  poisons  all  the  plain. 
The  peasant,  once  a  friend  a  friend  no  more, 
Cringes,  a  slave,  before  the  master's  door : 


Or  else,  too  proud  where  once  he  loved  to  fawn, 
For  distant  climes  deserts  his  native  lawn, 
And  fondly  hopes  beyond  the  western  main 
To  find  the  virtues  here  beloved  in  vain. 


TEVIOTDALE. 


LAND  of  my  fathers  ! — though  no  mangrove  here 
O'er  thy  blue  streams  her  flexile  branches  rear, 
Nor  scaly  palm  her  finger'd  scions  shoot, 
Nor  luscious  guava  wave  her  yellow  fruit, 
Nor  golden  apples  glimmer  from  the  tree — 
Land  of  dark  heaths  and  mountains  !  thou  art  free. 

Untainted  yet,  thy  stream,  fair  Teviot !  runs, 
With  unatoned  blood  of  Gambia's  sons  : 
No  drooping  slave,  with  spirit  bow'd  to  toil, 
Grows,  like  the  weed,  self-rooted  to  the  soil, 
Nor  cringing  vassal  on  these  pansied  meads 
Is  bought  and  barter'd,  as  the  flock  he  feeds. 
Free,  as  the  lark  that  carols  o'er  his  head, 
At  dawn  the  healthy  ploughman  leaves  his  bed, 
Binds  to  the  yoke  his  sturdy  steers  with  care, 
And  whistling  loud  directs  the  mining  share  ; 
Free,  as  his  lord,  the  peasant  treads  the  plain, 
And  heaps  his  harvest  on  the  groaning  wain  ; 
Proud  of  his  laws,  tenacious  of  his  right, 
And  vain  of  Scotia's  old  unconquer'd  might. 

Dear  native  valleys  !  may  ye  long  retain 
The  charter'd  freedom  of  the  mountain  swain  ! 
Long  mid  your  sounding  glades  in  union  sweet 
May  rural  innocence  and  beauty  meet ! 
And  still  be  duly  heard  at  twilight  calm 
From  every  cot  the  peasant's  chanted  psalm  ! 
Then,  Jed  worth  !  though  thy  ancient  choirs  shall 

fade, 

And  time  lay  bare  each  lofty  colonnade, 
From  the  damp  roof  the  massy  sculptures  die, 
And  in  their  vaults  thy  rifted  arches  lie, 
Still  in  these  vales  shall  angel  harps  prolong 
By  Jed's  pure  stream  a  sweeter  even  song, 
Than  long  processions  once,  with  mystic  zeal, 
Pour'd  to  the  harp  and  solemn  organ's  peal. 


SERENITY  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

I?f  the  sweet  morn  of  life,  when  health  and  joy 
Laugh  in  the  eye,  and  o'er  each  sunny  plain 
A  mild  celestial  softness  seems  to  reign, 

Ah !   who  could  dream  what  woes  the  heart  annoy  ? 

No  saddening  sighs  disturb  the  vernal  gale 
Which  fans  the  wild-wood  music  on  the  ear; 
Unbathed  the  sparkling  eye  with  pity's  tear, 

Save  listening  to  the  aged  soldier's  tale, 

The  heart's  slow  grief,  which  wastes  the  child  of  wo, 
And  lovely  injured  woman's  cruel  wrong, 
We  hear  not  in  the  sky-lark's  morning  song, 

We  hear  not  in  the  gales  that  o'er  us  blow, 
Visions  devoid  of  wo  which  childhood  drew, 
How  oft  shall  my  sad  heart  your  soothing  scenes 


CHARLES    LAMB. 


THE  author  of  "  Elia"  was  the  son  of  JOHN 
LAMB,  a  scrivener,  and  was  born  in  the  Inner 
Temple,  London,  on  the  eighteenth  of  Febru- 
ary, 1775.  In  1782  he  was  admitted  to  the 
school  of  Christ's  Hospital,  where  he  remained 
until  he  had  entered  into  his  fifteenth  year, 
from  which  time  he  was  employed  in  the 
South-Sea  House,  under  his  elder  brother, 
until  1792,  when  he  obtained  an  appointment 
in  the  office  of  the  accountant-general  of  the 
E:ist  India  Company.  He  was  in  the  India- 
house  thirty-five  years,  rarely  absent  from  his 
post  a  single  day,  and  fulfilling  his  duties 
with  most  exact  fidelity.  He  lived  meantime 
with  his  "  gentle  sister  Mary" — neither  of 
them  being  ever  married — and  had  at  all 
times  a  circle  of  ardent  friends,  embracing 
some  of  the  most  eminent  persons  of  the  coun- 
try, as  COLERIDGE,  who  was  his  schoolfellow, 
WORDSWORTH,  HAZLITT,  SOUTHEY,  and  Ser- 
geant TALFOURD,  his  biographer.  He  con- 
tinued nearly  all  his  life  in  London,  regarding 
it,  with  a  sort  of  Chinese  exclusiveness,  as 
the  only  scene  in  which  existence  could  be 
enjoyed,  until  within  two  or  three  years  of  his 
death,  when  he  wrote  to  a  friend  that  the 
town,  with  all  his  native  hankering  after  it, 
was  not  what  it  had  been  in  his  earlier  life. 
"The  streets,  the  shops,"  he  says,  "are  left, 
but  all  old  friends  are  gone  :  I  was  frightfully 
convinced  of  this  as  I  passed  houses  and 
places,  empty  caskets  now.  I  have  ceased  to 
care  almost  about  anybody ;  the  bodies  I 
cared  for  are  in  graves,  or  dispersed  ;  my  old 
chums  that  lived  so  long  and  flourished  so 
steadily,  are  crumbled  away." 

LAMB'S  favourite  reading  was  chiefly  in 
the  early  English  authors,  and  some  of  its 
results  appeared  in  his  "  Selections  from 
Dramatists  contemporary  with  Shakspeare," 
and  in  his  essays  on  Shakspeare's  Tragedies, 
on  the  works  of  George  Wither,  &c.  His 
first  appearance  as  an  author,  however,  was 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  when  he  pub- 
lished in  connection  with  COLERIDGE  and 
CHARLES  LLOYD,  a  volume  of  verses,  not  par- 
ticularly deserving  of  admiration,  and  in  the 


next  year,  "  Rosamund  Gray,"  a  story  after 
the  manner  of  MACKENZIE,  which  was  more 
popular.  In  1807  appeared  "John  Woodvil, 
a  Tragedy;"  in  1808  "The  Adventures  of 
Ulysses,"  and  at  intervals  came  out  his  "  Es- 
says of  Elia,"  the  most  remarkable  of  his 
compositions,  which  established  his  reputation 
on  good  and  lasting  grounds. 

Besides  the  works  already  mentioned,  LAMB 

wrote  a  farce  entitled  "  Mr.  H ,"  which 

was  acted  at  Drury  Lane.  Though  ELLISTON 
personated  the  hero,  it  was  for  some  reason 
unsuccessful.  In  America,  however,  it  after- 
ward had  a  great  run,  and  was  performed  by 
Mr.  WOOD,  in  Philadelphia,  as  many  nights, 
perhaps,  as  any  piece  of  its  nature  ever  brought 
out  by  that  excellent  comedian. 

LAMB'S  poems,  excepting  the  tragedy  which 
we  have  named,  are  few  and  brief,  and  of 
less  merit  than  his  prose  writings.  "  John 
Woodvil,"  however,  contains  passages  which 
would  not  have  done  dishonour  to  the  great 
dramatists  of  SHAKSPEARE'S  golden  age  ;  and 
"  The  Farewell  to  Tobacco,"  in  these  pages, 
is  such  a  piece  of  verse  as  one  might  imagine 
"  Elia"  would  write.  His  letters  and  his 
essays  belong  to  that  small  and  slowly  in- 
creasing body  of  works  constituting  the 
standard  literature  of  the  English  language. 
Their  bonhomie,  exquisite  humour,  and  ten- 
derness, will  make  them  as  great  favourites 
with  successive  generations  of  readers,  as  the 
living  CHARLES  LAMB  was  with  his  personal 
friends. 

Speaking  of  the  "Farewell  to  Tobacco," 
reminds  us  of  the  most  melancholy  subject  in 
LAMB'S  history — his  intemperance.  So  far 
as  we  know,  it  was  his  only  frailty,  and  it 
was  one  which  he  shared  with  COLERIDGE, 
the  most  intimate,  as  well  as  the  greatest  of 
his  friends.  Such  infirmities  of  genius  warn 
us  of  the  necessity  *of  preserving  every  guard 
to  virtue,  and  teach  the  duty  of  charity  and 
forbearance. 

Mr.  LAMB  died  suddenly  at  Edmonton,  on 
the  27th  of  December,  1834,  in  the  sixtieth 
year  of  his  age. 

ill 


112 


CHARLES    LAMB. 


FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO. 

MAT  the  Babylonish  curse 

Strait  confound  my  stammering  verse, 

If  I  can  a  passage  see 

In  this  word-perplexity, 

Or  a  fit  expression  find, 

Or  a  language  to  my  mind, 

(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant) 

To  take  leave  of  thee,  great  plant ! 

Or  in  any  terms  relate 

Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate  : 

For  I  hate,  yet  love,  thee  so, 

That,  whichever  thing  I  show, 

The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 

A  constrain'd  hyperbole, 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 

More  for  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 
Bacchus'  black  servant,  negro  fine; 
Sorcerer,  that  makest  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion, 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women  :  thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  way, 
While  thou  suck'st  the  labouring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us, 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us, 
And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us ; 
While  each  man,  thro' thy  heightening  steam, 
Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem, 
And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us, 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features, 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  chimeras, 
Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us  ; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.     But  what  art  thou, 
That  but  by  reflex  can'st  show 
What  his  deity  can  do, 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  1 
Some  few  vapours  thou  may'st  raise, 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Can'st  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  -later  born, 
The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn, 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god's  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant:  only  thou 


His  true  Indian  conquest  art ; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 
The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sovereign  to  the  brain. 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Roses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinking'st  of  the  stinking  kind, 
Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foyson, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison, 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 

Hemlock,  aconite 

Nay,  rather 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue  ; 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you. 
'T  was  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee  ; 
None  e'er  prosper'd  who  defamed  thee ; 
Irony  all,  and  feign'd  abuse, 
Such  as  perplext  lovers  use, 
At  a  need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 
Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 
They  borrow  language  of  dislike  ; 
And,  instead  of  dearest  miss, 
Jewel,  honey,  sweetheart,  bliss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 
Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 
Basilisk,  and  all  that's  evil, 
Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 
Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 
Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more ; 
Friendly  Trait'ress,  loving  Foe, — 
Not  that  she  is  truly  so, 
But  no  other  way  they  know 
A  contentment  to  express, 
Borders  so  upon  excess, 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constrain'd  to  part 
With  what's  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow's  at  the  height, 
Lose  discrimination  quite, 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 
On  the  darling  thing  whatever, 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 
Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave  thee. 
For  thy  sake,  Tobacco,  I 
Would  do  any  thing  but  die, 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 


CHARLES    LAMB. 


113 


But,  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort,  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state, 
Though  a  widow,  or  divorced, 
So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced, 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Katherine  of  Spain  ; 
And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys  ; 
Where  though  I,  by  sour  physician, 
Am  deharr'd  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favours,  I  may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odours,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbour's  wife 
And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces  ; 
And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 
An  unconquer'd  Canaanite. 


HESTER. 

WHEHT  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try. 
With  vain  endeavour. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed, 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flush'd  her  spirit. 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call : — if  't  was  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool, 
But  she  was  train'd  in  nature's  school, 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
Ye  could  not.  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A  sweet  fore-warning  1 
15 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days, 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies, 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  ! 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man ; 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly  ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  child- 
hood. 

Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Whv  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling  ] 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left 

me, 

And  some  are  taken  from  me;  all  are  departed  ; 
All,  all  arc  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


THE  FAMILY  NAME. 

WHAT  reason  first  imposed  thee,  gentle  name, 
Name  that  my  father  bore,  and  his  sire's  sire, 
Without  reproachl  we  trace  our  stream  no  higher; 

And  I,  a  childless  man,  may  end  the  same. 

Perchance  some  shepherd  on  Lincolnian  plains, 

In  manners  guileless  as  his  own  sweet  flocks, 

Received  thee  first  amid  the  merry  mocks 
And  arch-allusions  of  his  fellow  swains. 

Perchance  from  Salem's  holier  fields  return'd, 
With  glory  gotten  on  the  heads  abhorr'd 
Of  faithless  Saracens,  some  martial  lord 

Took  his  meek  title,  in  whose  zeal  he  burn'd. 
Whate'er  the  fount  whence  thy  beginnings  came, 
No  deed  of  mine  shall  shame  thee,  gentle  name. 


SONNET. 

WE  were  two  pretty  babes,  the  youngest  she, 
The  youngest,  and  the  loveliest  far,  I  ween, 
And  Innocence  her  name.     The  time  has  been, 
We  two  did  love  each  other's  company  ; 

Time  was,  we  two  had  wept  to  have  been  apart. 
But  when  by  show  of  seeming  good  beguiled, 
I  left  the  garb  and  manners  of  a  child, 
And  my  first  love  for  man's  society, 

Defiling  with  the  world  my  virgin  heart — 
My  loved  companion  dropp'd  a  tear  and  fled, 
And  hid  in  deepest  shades  her  awful  head. 

Beloved,  who  shall  tell  me  where  thou  art — 
In  what  delicious  Eden  to  be  found — 
That  I  may  seek  thee  the  wide  world  around  1 

K2 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  was  born  on  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  September,  1777,  in  Glasgow, 
where  his  father  was  a  retired  merchant. 
When  twelve  years  old  he  entered  the  uni- 
versity of  his  native  city,  and  in  the  following 
year  gained  a  prize  for  a  translation  from 
ARISTOPHANES,  after  a  hard  contest,  over  a 
competitor  of  nearly  twice  his  age.  He  was 
here  seven  years,  in  all  which  time  he  had 
scarcely  a  rival  in  classical  learning  ;  and  the 
Greek  professor,  when  bestowing  on  him  a 
medal  for  one  of  his  versions,  announced  that 
it  was  the  best  ever  produced  in  the  university. 
He  made  equal  proficiency  in  other  branches  of 
education,  and,  on  completing  his  academical 
course,  studied  medicine  and  law. 

He  quitted  Glasgow  to  remove  into  Argyle- 
shire,  whence  he  went  to  Edinburgh,  where 
he  was  for  several  years  a  private  tutor.  At 
the  early  age  of  twenty-one  he  finished  The 
Pleasures  of  Hope,  which  placed  him  in  the 
front  rank  of  contemporary  poets.  In  the 
spring  of  1800,  he  left  Scotland  for  the  Conti- 
nent. While  at  Hamburgh  he  wrote  the 
Exile  of  Erin,  from  an  impression  made  upon 
his  mind  by  the  condition  of  some  Irish  exiles 
in  the  vicinity  of  that  city ;  and,  with  the 
Danish  war  in  prospect,  his  famous  naval 
lyric,  Ye  Mariners  of  England.  He  travelled 
over  the  most  interesting  portions  of  Ger- 
many and  Prussia,  visited  their  universities, 
and  formed  friendships  with  the  SCHLEGELS, 
KLOPSTOCK,  and  other  scholars  and  men  of 
genius.  From  the  walls  of  a  convent  he  saw 
the  charge  of  KLENAU  upon  the  French  at 
Hohenlinden,  which  he  has  so  vividly  de- 
scribed in  his  celebrated  ode  upon  that  battle. 
Soon  after  his  return  to  Scotland,  in  1801,  he 
received  a  token  of  the  royal  admiration  of 
his  Pleasures  of  Hope,  in  a  pension  of  two 
hundred  pounds;  and,  after  a  short  residence 
at  Edinburgh,  married  Miss  MATILDA  SIN- 
CLAIR, and  settled  at  Sydenham,  near  London, 
where  he  remained  many  years,  and  wrote 
Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  Lord  Ullin's  Daugh- 
ter, and  several  of  his  minor  poems.  In  1820 
he  became  editor  of  the  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine, which  he  conducted  with  a  spirit  and 


ability  worthy  of  his  reputation,  for  ten  years, 
at  the  end  of  which  time  the  death  of  his  wife 
induced  its  abandonment.  In  this  period  he 
took  an  active  interest  in  the  causes  of  Greece 
and  Poland  ;  was  three  times  elected  Lord 
Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow ;  dis- 
charged the  duties  of  Professor  of  Poetry  in 
the  Royal  Institution;  and  laid  the  foundation 
of  the  London  University. 

For  several  years  before  his  death,  Mr. 
CAMPBELL  produced  nothing  of  much  excel- 
lence. The  Pilgrim  of  Glencoe  and  other  Po- 
ems, which  appeared  in  1842,  owed  all  their 
little  reputation  to  his  name.  He  died  at 
Boulougne,  on  the  fifteenth  of  June,  1844,  and 
his  remains  were  interred  in  the  Poet's  Corner 
of  Westminster  Abbey  on  the  third  of  the  fol- 
lowing month. 

•CAMPBELL'S  poetry  has  little  need  of  criti- 
cal illustration.  His  chief  merit  is  rhetorical. 
There  is  no  vagueness  or  mysticism  in  his 
verse.  The  scenes  and  feelings  he  delineates 
are  common  to  human  beings  in  general,  and 
the  impressive  style  with  which  these  are 
unfolded,  owes  its  charm  to  vigour  of  lan- 
guage and  forcible  clearness  of  epithet.  Many 
of  his  lines  ring  with  a  harmonious  energy, 
and  seem  the  offspring  of  the  noblest  enthusi- 
asm. This  is  especially  true  of  his  martial 
lyrics,  which  in  their  way  are  unsurpassed. 
The  Pleasures  of  Hope,  his  earliest  work,  is 
one  of  the  few  standard  heroic  poems  in  our 
language.  Poetic  taste  has  undergone  many 
remarkable  changes  since  it  appeared,  but  its 
ardent  numbers  are  constantly  resorted  to  by 
those  who  love  the  fire  of  the  muse  as  well  as 
her  more  delicate  tracery.  Though  more 
generally  read,  it  is  by  no  means  equal  to 
Gertrude  of  Wyoming,  a  Pennsylvania  Tale, 
written  in  the  full  maturity  of  his  powers,  and 
characterized  by  remarkable  taste,  feeling  and 
tenderness.  Nearly  all  CAMPBELL'S  earlier 
writings  are  popular,  and  although  a  more 
transcendental  school  of  poetry  is  at  present 
in  vogue,  admirers  of  felicity  of  expression 
can  never  fail  to  recognise  the  stamp  of  true 
genius  in  one  who  has  sung  in  such  thrilling 
numbers  of  patriotism  and  affection. 

114 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


115 


Besides  his  poems,  Mr.  CAMPBELL  wrote 
A  History  of  Great  Britain  from  the  Accession 
of  George  III.  to  the  Peace  of  Amiens ;  Lec- 
tures on  Greek  Poetry ;  Letters  from  the 
South  during  a  Journey  to  Algiers  ;  Lives  of 
Petrarch,  Shakspeare,  and  Mrs.  Siddons ;  seve- 
ral articles  on  poetry  and  belles  lettres,  in  the 
Edinburgh  Encyclopedia,  and  other  prose  wri- 
tings, none  of  which  deserved  much  considera- 
tion. His  name  appears  also  on  the  title-pages 


of  a  Life  of  Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia, 
but  I  believe  he  had  little  to  do  with  the  work. 
His  Specimens  of  the  British  Poets,  with  Bio- 
graphical and  Critical  Notices,  and  an  Essay 
on  English  Poetry,  was  published  in  seven  vol- 
umes in  1 8 1 9,  and  has  recently  been  reproduced 
by  Mr.  Murray.  It  is  a  work  of  great  value, 
containing  much  admirable  criticism,  and  a 
judicious  account  of  the  poetry  in  the  English 
language  down  to  the  time  of  COWPER. 


LOCHIEL'S   WARNING. 

Wizard.  LOCHIEL!   Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array  ! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scatter'd  in  fight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed  for  their  country  and  crown ; 
Wo,  wo  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-be^rsn  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark!  through  the  fast-flashing  lightningof  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far] 
'Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin  !   whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  :  no  rider  is  there, 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despiir. 
Weep,  Albin!    to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
Oh  weep  !  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead  : 
For  a  merciless  sword  o'er  Culloden  shall  wave, 
Cullo.len  !  that  recks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

Lochiel.  Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death- 
telling  seer  ! 

Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight, 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

Wizard.  Ha !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision 

to  scorn  1 

Proud  bird  of  the  mountain, thy  plume  shall  be  torn! 
Say  rush  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 
Fromhishonaeinthedarkrolling  clouds  of  the  north? 
Lo  !  the  deathshot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high ! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed,  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit?  Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast? 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie, that  beaconsthe  darkness  of  heaven. 
Oh,  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn  ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely,  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood. 

Lochiel.  False  wizard,  avaunt!  I  have  marshall'd 

my  clan, 

Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one  ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their 

breath, 
And,  like  reapers,  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 


Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock! 
But  wo  to  his  kindred,  and  wo  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanranald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array — 

Wizard.  Lochiel!  Lochiel!  beware  of  the  day  ! 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive 

king. 

Lo !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath^ 
Behold  where  he  flies  on  bis  desolate  path  ! 
Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my 

sight : 

Rise,  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 
'Tis  finish'd.      Their  thunders  are  hush'd  on  the 

moors ; 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?      Where? 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banish'd,  forlorn, 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn? 
Ah,  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling — oh  !  Mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  rny  spirit  to  tell  ! 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims ; 
Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to 

beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale — 
Lochiel.  Down,  soothless  insulter  !    I  trust  not 

the  tale : 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 
So  black  with  dishonour,  so  foul  with  retreat. 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strew'd  in 

their  gore, 

Like  ocean-weeds  heap'd  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe; 
And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  deathbed  of  Fame. 


116 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 

ALL  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom, 

The  sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality  ! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time : 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould, 
That  shall  creation's  death  behold, 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime. 

The  sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare  ; 

The  earth  with  age  was  wan ; 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man. 
Some  had  expired  in  fight, — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands ; 

In  plague  and  famine  some. 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread, 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb. 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood 

As  if  a  storm  pass'd  by, 
Saying,  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun, 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run, 

'T  is  mercy  bids  thee  go ; 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill ; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  floods,  and  earth, 

The  vassals  of  his  will ; 
Yet  mourn  not  I  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim,  discrowned  king  of  day  : 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Heal'd  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entail'd  on  human  hearts. 

Go,  let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men, 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again. 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  waken  flesh  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe ; 
Stretch'd  in  disease's  shapes  abhorr'd, 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Even  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire  ; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shall  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall, — 
The  majesty  of  darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost ! 


This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

That  gave  its  heavenly  spark  ; 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark  ! 
No  !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine, 

By  Him  recall'd  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  captivity, 
Who  robb'd  the  grave  of  victory, — 

And  took  the  sting  from  death  ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste — 
Go,  tell  that  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  darkening  universe  defy 
To  quench  his- immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God  ! 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

YE  Mariners  of  England  ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 
Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe  ! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow  ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave, — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave : 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow , 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak, 

She  quells  the  floods  below — 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow  ; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


117 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

OF  Nelson  and  the  north, 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 
And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 
While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  : 
It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 
For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 

To  anticipate  the  scene ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between.  [gun 

"  Hearts  of  oak,"  our  captains  cried ;  when  each 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 
Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 
Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  : — 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail ; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 
Light  the  gloom. 

Outspoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave, 
"  Ye  are  brothers!  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save : — 
So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring. 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  king." 

Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose  ; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief, 

From  her  people  wildly  rose ; 
As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day. 

While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England  raise  ! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

While  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 


And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 
On  the  deck  of  Fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou : 
Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave ! 


EXILE  OF  ERIN. 

THERE  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill : 
For  his  country  he  sigh'd,  when  at  twilight  repairing 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 

But  the  day  star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sad  is  my  fate  !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger, 
The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee ; 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 
A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 

Never  again  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 

Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the 
sweet  hours, 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven  flowers, 
And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh ! 

Erin  my  country  !  though  sad  and  forsaken, 

In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  seabeaten  shore ; 
But  alas!  in  a  fair  foreign  land  I  awaken,  [more. 
And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no 
Oh  cruel  fate  !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me     [me  1 
In  a  mansion  of  peace — where  no  perils  can  chase 
Never  again,  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ; 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore ! 

Where  is  my  cabin-door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood  1 
Sisters  and  sire  !  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall  1 

Where  is  the  mother  that  look'd  on  my  childhood  ] 
And  where  is  the  bosom  friend  dearer  than  all  ? 

Oh  !  my  sad  heart !  long  abandon'd  by  pleasure, 

Why  did  it  doat  on  a  fast-fading  treasure ! 

Tears  like  the  rain  drop,  may  fall  without  measure ; 
But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

Yet  all  its  sad  recollection  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw, 

Erin !  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing  ! 
Land  of  my  forefathers  !  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields — sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean  ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  de- 
votion— 
Erin  mavournin  ! — Erin  go  bragh  ! 


118 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


VALEDICTORY  STANZAS  TO  J.  P. 
KEMBLE,  ESQ. 

PRIDE  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Whose  image  brought  the  heroic  age 

Revived  to  fancy's  view 
Like  fields  refreshed  with  dewy  light 

When  the  sun  smiles  his  last, 
Thy  parting  presence  makes  more  bright 

Our  memory  of  the  past ; 
And  memory  conjures  feelings  up 

That  wine  or  music  need  not  swell, 
As  high  we  lift  the  festal  cup 

To  Kemble  !  fare  thee  well ! 
His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  acting  lends, — 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends : 
For  ill  can  poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  painting,  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come — 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  sculpture  to  be  dumb. 
Time  may  again  revive, 

But  ne'er  eclipse  the  charm, 
When  Cato  spoke  in  him  alive, 

Or  Hotspur  kindled  warm. 
What  soul  was  not  resign'd  entire 

To  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  Moor, — 
What  English  heart  was  not  on  fire 

With  him  at  Agincourt? 
And  yet  a  majesty  possess'd 

His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone, 
And  to  each  passion  of  his  breast 

The  graces  gave  their  zone. 
High  were  the  task — too  high, 

Ye  conscious  bosoms  here  I 
In  words  to  paint  your  memory 

Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear; 
But  who  forgets  that  white  discrowned  head, 

Those  bursts  of  reason's  half-extinguish'd 

glare — 
Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed, 

In  doubt  more  touching  than  despair, 
If  'twas  reality  he  felt? 

Had  Shakspeare's  self  amidst  you  been, 
Friends,  he  had  seen  you  melt, 

And  triumph'd  to  have  seen  ! 

And  there  was  many  an  hour 

Of  blended  kindred  fame, 
When  Siddon's  auxiliar  power 

And  sister  magic  came. 
Together  at  the  Muse's  side 

The  tragic  paragons  had  grown — 
They  were  the  children  of  her  pride, 

The  columns  of  her  throne, 
And  undivided  favour  ran 

From  heart  to  heart  in  their  applause, 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man, 

In  lovelier  woman's  cause. 


Fair  as  some  classic  dome, 

Robust  and  richly  graced, 
Your  Kemble's  spirit  was  the  home 

Of  genius  and  of  taste : — 
Taste  like  the  silent  dial's  power, 

That  when  supernal  light  is  given, 
Can  measure  inspiration's  hour, 

And  tell  its  height  in  heaven. 
At  once  ennobled  and  correct, 

His  mind  survey'd  the  tragic  page, 
And  what  the  actor  could  effect, 

The  scholar  could  presage. 

These  were  his  traits  of  worth : — 

And  must  we  lose  them  now  ! 
And  shall  the  scene  no  more  show  forth 

His  sternly  pleasing  brow  ! 
Alas,  the  moral  brings  a  tear  ! — 

'Tis  all  a  transient  hour  below  ; 
And  we  that  would  detain  thee  here, 

Ourselves  as  fleetly  go  ! 
Yet  shall  our  latest  age 

This  parting  scene  review  : — 
Pride  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

OUR  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud  had 

lower'd 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on   the  ground   over- 

power'd, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain ; 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track ; 

'Twas  autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me 
back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was 

young; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 
And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers 
sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never 
to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn, 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay ; 

But  sorrow  return'd  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


119 


DESCRIPTION  OF  WYOMING. 

Oy  Susquehana's  side,  fair  Wyoming  ! 
Although  the  wild-flower  on  thy  ruin'd  wall 
And  roofless  homes,  a  sad  remembrance  bring 
Of  what  thy  gentle  people  did  befall ; 
Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all 
That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  morn  restore. 
Sweet  land !  may  I  thy  lost  delights  recall, 
Arid  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 
Whose  beauty  was  the  love  of  Pennsylvania's  shore! 

Delightful  Wyoming !  beneath  thy  skies, 
The  happy  shepherd  swains  had  naught  to  do 
But  feed  their  flocks  on  green  declivities, 
Or  skim  perchance  thy  lake  with  light  canoe 
From  morn,  till  evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew, 
With  timbrel,  when  beneath  the  forests  brown, 
Thy  lovely  maidens  would  the  dance  renew, 
And  aye  those  sunny  mountains  half-way  down 
Would  echo  flvxgeolet  from  some  romantic  town. 

Then,  where  on  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
His  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 
Disporting  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes — 
And  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut-grown  tree: 
And  every  sound  of  life  was  full  of  glee, 
From  merry  mock-bird's  song,  or  hum  of  men  ; 
While,  hearkening,  fearing  naught  their  revelry, 
The  wild  deer  arch'd  his  neck  from  glades,  and  then 
Un hunted,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

And  scarce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 
Heard,  but  in  transatlantic  story  sung, 
For  here  the  exile  met  from  every  clime, 
And  spoke  in  friendship  every  distant  tongue : 
Men  from  the  blood  of  warring  Europe  sprung, 
Were  but  divided  by  the  running  brook  ; 
And  happy  where  no  Rhenish  trumpet  rung, 
On  plains  no  sieging  mine's  volcano  shook, 
The  blue-eyed  German  changed  his  sword  to  pru- 
ning-hook. 

Nor  far  some  Andalusian  saraband 
-Would  sound  to  many  a  native  roundelay — 
But  who  is  he  that  yet  a  dearer  land 
Remembers,  over  hills  and  far  away  ? 
Green  Albin  !  what  though  he  no  more  survey 
Thy  ships  at  anchor  on  the  quiet  shore, 
Thy  pellochs  rolling  from  the  mountain  bay, 
Thy  lone  sepulchral  cairn  upon  the  moor, 
And  distant  isles  that  hear  the  loud  Corbrechtan 

roar! 

Alas  !  poor  Caledonia's  mountaineer, 
That  want's  stern  edict  e'er,  and  feudal  grief, 
Had  forced  him  from  a  home  he  loved  so  dear ! 
Yet  found  he  here  a  home,  and  glad  relief, 
And  plied  the  beverage  from  his  own  fair  sheaf, 
That  fired  his  Highland  blood  with  mickle  glee : 
And  England  sent  her  men,  of  men  the  chief, 
Who  taught  those  sires  of  Empire  yet  to  be, 
To  plant  the  tree  of  life,— to  plant  fair  Freedom's 

tree! 

Here  was  not  mingled  in  the  city's  pomp 
Of  life's  extremes  the  grandeur  and  'r-0  gloom; 
Judgment  awoke  not  here  her  di-^r-.il  tromp, 
Nor  seal'd  in  blood  a  fellow-crrature's  doom, 


Nor  mourn'd  the  captive  in  a  living  tomb. 
One  venerable  man,  beloved  of  all, 
Sufficed,  where  innocence  was  yet  in  bloom, 
To  sway  the  strife,  that  seldom  might  befall : 
And  Albert  was  their  judge  in  patriarchal  hall. 


DIRGE  OF  OUTALISSI. 


I  could  weep  !  —  the  Oneyda  chief 
His  descant  wildly  thus  begun:  — 
But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  my  father's  son, 

Or  bow  his  head  in  wo  ! 
For  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  wrath  ! 
To-morrow  Areouski's  breath 
(That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death) 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe  ; 
And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy, 
The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy  ! 

But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given 

By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep, 
The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 

Forbid  not  thee  to  weep  :  — 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 
Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve, 
To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve, 
Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 
Of  her  who  loved  thee  most  : 
She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight  ; 
Thy  sun  —  thy  heaven  —  of  lost  delight  ! 

To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die  ! 

But  when  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurl'd, 
Ah  !  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly, 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world  ? 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 
The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers  : 
Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours  ; 
Cold  is  the  hearth  within  their  bowers  ! 

And  should  we  thither  roam, 
Its  echoes,  and  its  empty  tread, 
Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead  ! 
Or  shall  we  cross  yon  mountains  blue, 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaff  'dl 
And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ] 

Ah!   there  in  desolation  cold, 
The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone, 
Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mouldering  bone; 
And  stones  themselves,  to  ruin  grown 

Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 
Then  seek  we  not  their  camp,  —  for  there  — 
The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair  !" 
But  hark,  the  trump!  —  to-morrow  thou 

In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears: 
Even  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 

My  father's  awful  ghost  appears, 

Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll; 
He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst  — 
He  bids  me  dry  the  last  —  the  first  — 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 

From  Outalissi's  soul  ; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief! 


120 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


THE  FALL  OF  POLAND. 

OH,  sacred  Truth!  thy  triumph  ceased  a  while, 
And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagued  oppression  pour'd  to  Northern  wars 
Her  whisker'd  pandoors  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Peal'd  her  loud  drum,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet 

horn ; 

Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man  ! 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  survey 'd, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid, — 
Oh,  heaven !  he  cried,  my  bleeding  country  save  ! — 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave  1 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  these  lovely  plains, 
Rise,  fellow-men !  our  country  yet  remains  ! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high! 
And  swear  for  her  to  live  ! — with  her  to  die ! 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  array'd 
His  trusty  warriors,  few  but  undismay'd ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge,  or  death, — the  watch-word  and  reply  ; 
Then  peal'd  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  toll'd  their  last  alarm ! — 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few ! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volley'd  thunder  flew  : — 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  wo  ! 
Dropp'd  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shatter'd  spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curb'd  her  high  career ; — 
Hope  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shriek'd — as  Kosciusko  fell ! 


HOHENLINDEN. 

Ox  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iscr,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rush'd  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

And  redder  yet  that  light  shall  slow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


'Tis  morn,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet, 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


CAROLINE. 

I  'LI  bid  my  hyacinth  to  blow, 
I  '11  teach  my  grotto  green  to  be, 

And  sing  my  true  love,  all  below 
The  holly  bower  and  myrtle-tree. 

There,  all  his  wild-wood  scents  to  bring, 
The  sweet  south  wind  shall  wander  by, 

And  with  the  music  of  his  wing 
Delight  my  rustling  canopy. 

Come  to  my  close  and  clustering  bower, 

Thou  spirit  of  a  milder  clime  ! 
Fresh  with  the  dews  of  fruit  and  flower, 

Of  mountain-heath  and  moory  thyme. 

With  all  thy  rural  echoes  come, 
Sweet  comrade  of  the  rosy  day, 

Wafting  the  wild  bee's  gentle  hum, 
Or  cuckoo's  plaintive  roundelay. 

Where'er  thy  morning  breath  has  play'd, 
Whatever  isles  of  ocean  fann'd, 

Come  to  my  blossom-woven  shade, 
Thou  wandering  wind  of  fairy  land ! 

For  sure,  from  some  enchanted  isle, 

Where  heaven  and  love  their  sabbath  hold, 

Where  pure  and  happy  spirits  smile, 
Of  beauty's  fairest,  brightest  mould  ; 

From  some  green  Eden  of  the  deep, 
Where  pleasure's  sigh  alone  is  heaved, 

Where  tears  of  rapture  lovers  weep, 
Endear'd,  undoubting,  undeceived; 

From  some  sweet  paradise  afar, 
Thy  music  wanders,  distant,  lost ; 

Where  Nature  lights  her  leading  star, 
And  love  is  never,  never  cross'd. 

Oh.  gentle  gale  of  Eden  bowers, 
If  back  thy  rosy  feet  should  roam, 

To  revel  with  the  cloudless  hours 
In  Nature's  more  propitious  home, 

Name  to  thy  loved  Elysian  groves, 
That  o'er  enchanted  spirits  twine, 

A  fairer  form  than  cherub  lovrs, 
And  let  the  name  be  Caroline. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


121 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD. 

OH,  once  the  harp  of  Innisfail 

Was  strung  full  high  to  notes  of  gladness ; 
But  yet  it  often  told  a  tale 

Of  more  prevailing  sadness. 
Sad  was  the  note,  and  wild  its  fall, 

As  winds  that  moan  at  night  forlorn 
Along  the  isles  of  Fion-Gael, 

When  for  O'Connor's  child  to  mourn, 
The  harper  told  how  lone,  how  far 
From  any  mansion's  twinkling  star, 
From  any  path  of  social  men, 
Or  voice,  but  from  the  fox's  den, 
The  lady  in  the  desert  dwelt, 
And  yet  no  wrongs,  no  fear  she  felt : 
Say,  why  should  dwell  in  place  so  wild 
The  lovely,  pale  O'Connor's  child  1 

Sweet  lady  !  she  no  more  inspires 

Green  Erin's  heart  with  beauty's  power, 
As  in  the  palace  of  her  sires 

She  bloom'd  a  peerless  flower. 
Gone  from  her  hand  and  bosom,  gone, 

The  regal  broche,  the  jewel  I'd  ring, 
That  o'er  her  dazzling  whiteness  shone 

Like  dews  on  lilies  of  the  spring. 
Yet  why,  though  fallen  her  brother's  kerne, 
Beneath  De  Bourgo's  battle  stern, 
While  yet  in  Leinster  unexplored, 
Her  friends  survive  the  English  sword  ; 
Why  lingers  she  from  Erin's  host, 
So  far  on  Galway's  shipwreck'd  coast; 
Why  wanders  she  a  huntress  wild — 
The  lovely,  pale  O'Connor's  child  ? 

And,  fix'd  on  empty  space,  why  burn 

Her  eyes  with  momentary  wildness; 
And  wherefore  do  they  then  return 

To  more  than  woman's  mildness] 
DisheveU'd  are  her  raven  locks, 

On  Connocht  Moran's  name  she  calls ; 
And  oft  amidst  the  lonely  rocks 

She  sings  sweet  madrigals. 
Placed  in  the  foxglove  and  the  moss, 
Behold  a  parted  warrior's  cross  ! 
That  is  a  spot  where,  evermore, 
The  lady,  at  her  shieling  door, 
Enjoys  that  in  communion  sweet, 
The  living  and  the  dead  can  meet : 
For  lo  !  to  lovelorn  fantasy, 
The  hero  of  her  heart  is  nigh. 

Bright  as  the  bow  that  spans  the  storm, 

In  Erin's  yellow  vesture  clad, 
A  son  of  light — a  lovely  form, 

He  comes  and  makes  her  glad  : 
Now  on  the  grass-green  turf  he  sits, 

His  tassell'd  horn  beside  him  laid  ; 
Now  o'er  the  hills  in  chase  he  flits, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade ! 
Sweet  mourner!   those  are  shadows  vain 

That  cross  the  twilight  of  her  brain ; 
Yet  she  will  tell  you  she  is  blest, 
Of  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  possess'd, 
More  richly  than  in  Aghrim's  bower, 
When  bards  high  praised  her  beauty's  power, 
16 


And  kneeling  pages  offer'd  up 
The  moral  in  a  golden  cup. 
A  hero's  bride  !   this  desert  bower, 

It  ill  befits  thy  gentle  breeding : 
And  wherefore  dost  thou  love  this  flower 

To  call — My  love  lies  bleeding]" 
"This  purple  flower  my  tears  have  nursed; 

A  hero's  blood  supplied  its  bloom  : 
I  love  it,  for  it  was  the  first 

That  grew  on  Connocht  Moran's  tomb. 
0,  hearken,  stranger,  to  my  voice ; 
This  desert  mansion  is  my  choice ; 
And  blest,  though  fatal,  be  the  star 
That  led  me  to  its  wilds  afar  : 
For  here  these  pathless  mountains  free 
Gave  shelter  to  my  love  and  me ; 
And  every  rock  and  every  stone 
Bore  witness  that  he  was  my  own. 

"  O'Connor's  child,  I  was  the  bud 

Of  Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory  ; 
But  wo  to  them  that  wrapt  in  blood 

The  tissue  of  my  story  ! 
Still  as  I  clasp  my  burning  brain, 

A  death-scene  rushes  on  my  sight; 
It  rises  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

The  bloody  feud — the  fatal  night, 
When  chafing  Connocht  Moran's  scorn, 
They  call'd  my  hero  basely  born, 
And  bade  him  choose  a  meaner  bride 
Than  from  O'Connor's  house  of  pride. 
Their  tribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree, 
Was  sung  in  Tara's  psaltery  ; 
Witness  their  Eath's  victorious  brand, 
And  Cathal  of  the  bloody  hand, — 
Glory  (they  said)  arid  power  and  honour 
Were  in  the  mansion  of  O'Connor; 
But  he,  my  loved  one,  bore  in  field 
A  meaner  crest  upon  his  shield. 

"  Ah.  brothers  !   what  did  it  avail 

That  fiercely  and  triumphantly 
Ye  fought  the  English  of  the  pale, 

And  stemm'd  De  Bourgo's  chivalry  ] 
And  what  was  it  to  love  and  me 

That  barons  by  your  standard  rode ; 
Or  beal-fires,  for  your  jubilee, 

Upon  a  hundred  mountains  glow'dl 
What  though  the  lords  of  tower  and  dome 
From  Shannon  to  the  North-sea  foam, — 
Thought  ye  your  iron  hands  of  pride 
Could  break  the  knot  that  love  had  tied? 
No  : — let  the  eagle  change  his  plume, 
The  leaf  its  hue,  the  flower  its  bloom; 
But  ties  around  this  heart  were  spun, 
That  could  not,  would  not,  be  undone. 

"  At  bleating  of  the  wild  watch  fold 

Thus  sang  my  love — <  O,  come  with  me, 
Our  bark  is  on  the  lake :  behold, 

Our  steeds  are  fasten'd  to  the  tree. 
Come  far  from  Castle-Connor's  clans — 

Come  with  thy  belted  forestere, 
And  I  beside  the  lake  of  swans 

Shall  hunt  for  thee  the  fallow  deer, 
And  build  thy  hut  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild  fowl  and  the  honeycomb ; 
L 


122 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


And  berries  from  the  wood  provide, 
And  play  my  clarshech  by  thy  side. 
Then  come,  my  love  !' — How  could  I  stay? 
Our  nimble  stag-hounds  track'd  the  way, 
And  I  pursued,  by  moonless  skies, 
The  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes. 

"And  fast  and  far,  before  the  star 

Of  dayspring  rush'd  me  through  the  glade, 
And  saw  at  dawn  the  lofty  bawu 

Of  Castle  Connor  fade. 
Sweet  was  to  us  the  hermitage 

Of  this  unplough'd,  untrodden  shore: 
Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage, 

For  man's  neglect  we  loved  it  more. 
And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 
To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear; 
While  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress, 
Would  sing  to  him  in  happiness. 
But  oh,  that  midnight  of  despair ! 
When  I  was  doom'd  to  rend  my  hair: 
The  night,  to  me,  of  shrieking  sorrow  ! 
The  night,  to  him,  that  had  no  morrow  ! 

"  When  all  was  hush'd  at  eventide, 

I  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle  : 
'  Be  hush'd  !'    mv  Connocht  Moran  cried, 

<  'Tis  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle.' 
Alas!   'twas  not  the  eyrie's  sound, 

Their  bloody  bands  had  track'd  us  out: 
Up-listening  starts  our  couchant  hound, — 

And  hark  !  again  that  nearer  shout 
Brings  faster  on  the  rmmlrivrs. 
'Spare — spare  him — Bazil — Desmond  fierce!' 
In  vain — no  voice  the  adder  charms ; 
Their  weapons  cross'd  my  sheltering  arms  : 
Another's  sword  has  laid  him  low — 

Another's  and  another's ; 
And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow — 

Ah  me  !  it  was  a  b  other's ! 
Yes,  when  his  moanings  died  away, 
Their  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 
And  o'er  his  burial  turf  they  trod, 
And  I  beheld— 0  God  !  O  God  ! 
His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod  ! 

"  Warm  in  his  death-wounds  sepulchred, 

Alas  !   my  warrior's  spirit  brave 
Nor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla  heard, 

Lamenting  soothe  his  grave. 
Dragg'd  to  their  hated  mansion  back, 

How  long  in  thraldom's  grasp  I  lay 
I  know  not,  for  my  soul  was  black, 

And  knew  no  change  of  night  or  day. 
One  night  of  horror  round  me  grew ; 
Or  if  I  saw,  or  felt,  or  knew, 
'Twas  but  when  those  grim  visages, 
The  angry  brothers  of  my  race, 
Glared  on  each  eyeball's  aching  throb, 
And  check'd  my  bosom's  power  to  sob ; 
Or  when  my  heart  with  pulses  drear, 
Beat  like  a  death-watch  to  my  ear. 

"But  Heaven,  at  last,  my  soul's  eclipse 
Did  with  a  vision  bright  inspire : 

I  woke,  and  felt  upon  my  lips 
A  prophetess's  fire. 


Thrice  in  the  east  a  war-drum  beat, 

I  heard  the  Saxon's  trumpet  sound, 
And  ranged  as  to  the  judgment  seat 

My  guilty,  trembling  brothers  round. 
Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came; 
For  now  De  Bourgo's  sword  and  flame 
Had  ravaged  Ulster's  boundaries, 
And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 
The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 
Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay : 
That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look, 

As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 
I  gave — that  every  bosom  shook 

Beneath  its  iron  mail. 

"  And  go  !  I  cried,  the  combat  seek  : 

Ye   hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek, 

Go — and  return  no  more  ! 
For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 

Shall  grasp  unhurt,  then  ye  shall  hold 
The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 

Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unroll'd. 

0  stranger!  by  my  country's  loss! 
And  by  my  love  !   and  by  the  cross! 

1  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  sever'd  nature's  yoke; 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood, 

And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood  ; 
And  frensy  to  my  heart  was  given, 
To  speak  the  malison  of  Heaven. 

"They  would  have  cross'd  themselves  all  mute, 

They  would  have  pray'd  to  burst  the  spell 
But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot 

Each  hand  down  powerless  fell ! 
And  go  to  Athunree  !  I  cried  ; 
High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride ! 
But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls 
The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls ! 
Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 
Shall  float  as  high  as  mountain  fern  ! 
Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know  ! 
The  nettles  on  your  hearth  shall  grow  ! 
Dead  as  the  green,  oblivious  flood, 

That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blood  ! 

Away  !  away  to  Athunree! 
Where  downward  when  the  sun  shall  fall 
The  raven's  wing  shall  be  your  pall ; 
And   not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 
The  vizor  from  your  dying  face  ! 

"A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome 

Suspended  till  my  curse  was  given, 
Soon  as  it  pass'd  these  lips  of  foam 

Peal'd  in  the  blood-red  heaven. 
Dire  was  the  look  that  o'er  their  backs 

The  angry  parting  brothers  threw ; 
But  now,  behold  !   like  cataracts, 

Come  down  the  hills  in  view 
O'Connor's  plumed  partisans, 
Thrice  ten  Innisfallian  clans 

Were  marching  to  their  doom  : 
A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  toss'd, 
A  flash  of  lightning  o'er  them  cross'd, 

And  all  again  was  gloom ; 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


123 


But  once  again  in  .heaven  the  bands 
Of  thunder-spirits  clapt  their  hands. 

"  Stranger  !  I  fled  the  home  of  grief, 

At  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  to  fall ; 
I  found  the  helmet  of  my  chief, 

His  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wall ; 
And  took  it  down,  and  vow'd  to  rove 

This  desert  place  a  huntress  bold  ; 
Nor  would  I  change  my  buried  love 

For  any  heart  of  living  mould. 
No !  for  I  am  a  hero's  child, 
I'll  hunt  my  quarry  in  the  wild ; 
And  still  my  home  this  mansion  make, 

Of  all  unheeded  and  unheeding, 
And  cherish,  for  my  warrior's  sake, 

The  flower  of  Love-lies-bleeding." 


LAST  SCENE    IN  GERTRUDE   OF 
WYOMING. 

A  SCK^E  of  death  !  where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow  : 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done, 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seem'd  to  blow. 
There  sad  spectatress  of  her  country's  wo  ! 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm, 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasp'd  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hush'd  its  wild 
alarm  ! 

But  short  that  contemplation — sad  and  short 
The  pause  that  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu  ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort,  [flew  ; 

Where  friendly  swords  were  drawn,  and  banners 
Ah  !   who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near  ] — yet  there,  with  lust  of  murderous 

deeds, 

Gleam'd  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view, 
The  ambush'd  foeman's  eye — his  volley  speeds, 
And  Albert,  Albert  falls  !  the  dear  old  father  bleeds. 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror  Gertrude  swoon'd  ; 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 
Say,  burst  they,  borrow'd  from  her  father's  wounds, 
These  drops] — O  God  !  the  life-blood  is  her  own. 
And  faltering,  on  her  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown, 
"Weep  not,  O  love  !"  she  cries,  "to  see  me  bleed — 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate ;  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds; — yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is 
death  indeed. 

"  Clasp  me  a  little  longer,  on  the  brink 

Of  fate  !   while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress  ; 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat,  O  think, 

And  let  it  mitigate  thy  wo's  excess, 

That  thou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 

And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 

Oh !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 


And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs  when  I  am  laid  in  dust! 

"  Go,  Henry,  go  not  back,  when  I  depart, 
The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 
Where  my  dear  father  took  thee  to  his  heart, 
And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstasy  to  rove 
With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 
Of  peace, — imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heaven  ;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 
And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  las't? 
No!  I  shall  love  thee  still  when  death  itself  is  past. 

"  Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth, 
And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 
If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 
Of  one  dear  pledge; — but  shall  there  then  be  none 
In  future  times — no  gentle  little  one, 
To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me  ? 
Yet  seems  it,  even  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 
A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death,  to  be 
Lord  of  my  bosom's  love !  to  die  beholding  thee  !" 

Hush'd  were  his  Gertrude's  lips ;  but  still  their 
And  beautiful  expression  seem'd  to  melt  [bland 
With  love  that  could  not  die !  and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah  !  heart  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 


THE  BEECH-TREE'S  PETITION. 

OH,  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me ! 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 
Though  bush  or  floweret  never  grow 
My  dark,  unwarming  shade  below ; 
Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 
Of  rosy  blush  or  yellow  hue ; 
Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-born, 
My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn ; 
Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 
Th'  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive  ; 
Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me  : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green ; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour; 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made, 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carved  many  a  long-forgotten  name. 
Oh  !  by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound, 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  ground; 
By  all  that  love  has  whisper'd  here, 
Or  beauty  heard  with  ravish 'd  ear; 
As  love's  own  altar  honour  me : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


THE  Honourable  and  Very  Reverend  WIL- 
LIAM HERBERT,  now  Dean  of  Manchester,  was 
born  in  1778,  in  the  county  of  Hampshire, 
and  is  the  third  son  of  HENRY  third  Earl  of 
CAERNARVON  and  Lady  ELIZABETH  WYNDHAM, 
sister  of  the  late  Earl  of  EGREMONT,  being  de- 
scended directly  on  the  father's  side  from  the 
Earls  of  PEMBROKE,  and  on  the  mother's  from 
the  Earls  of  PERCY.  He  was  educated  at  Eton, 
with  his  brother,  the  late  earl,  who  was  him- 
self distinguished  for  his  ability  as  a  speaker 
in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  for  his  strenuous 
denunciation  of  King  GEORGE  the  Fourth 
in  the  matter  of  the  divorce  of  Queen  CARO- 
LINE. From  Eton  Mr.  HERBERT  went  to 
Christ's  Church,  Oxford,  in  which  univer- 
sity he  was  afterward  elected  fellow  of  Merton 
College  ;  and  both  at  school  and  the  univer- 
sity he  obtained  high  distinction  as  a  classical 
scholar.  He  adopted  civil  and  ecclesiastical 
law  as  his  profession,  became  a  member  of 
Doctors  Commons,  was  retained  largely  by 
American  shipholders  in  the  admiralty  suits 
previous  to  the  last  war,  and  in  the  case  of  the 
Snipe,  delivered  an  argument  which  was  con- 
sidered the  ablest  that  was  produced  in  any 
of  those  cases,  and  which  Sir  WILLIAM  SCOTT 
said  contained  so  many  and  strong  new  points 
that  he  must  take  time  to  consider  previous  to 
giving  a  decision.  During  the  consideration, 
however,  war  was  declared,  in  consequence 
of  earlier  confiscations,  and  the  decision  was 
at  length  adverse.  About  this  time  Mr. 
HERBERT  was  returned  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons for  the  borough  of  Cricklade  in  Wilt- 
shire, and  afterward  for  his  native  county,  in 
a  strongly  contested  election,  and  in  the 
House  soon  came  to  be  considered  a  rising 
member  of  uncommon  promise.  During  this 
lime  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  sharing  the 
glory  of  the  immortal  WILBERFORCE,  with 
whom  he  was  a  steady  co-operator,  in  the  abo- 
lition of  the  slave  trade.  Shortly  afterward, 
all  hopes  of  the  Whig  party,  to  which  he  was 
attached,  coming  into  power,  being  destroyed 
by  the  change  in  the  Prince  Regent's  policy, 
and  his  brother  having  sold  the  borough  of 
Cricklade,  Mr.  HERBERT,  who  had  in  the 

124 


meantime  married  the  daughter  of  Viscount 
ALLEN, — with  an  increasing  family,  and  no 
hopes  of  political  success, — took  orders  in 
the  church,  for  which  he  had  always  felt  a 
strong  inclination,  and  was  inducted  to  a 
valuable  rectory  in  Yorkshire,  in  the  gift  of 
his  uncle  the  Earl  of  EGREMONT,  where  he  has 
constantly  resided  since  1816,  dividing  his 
time  between  his  parishioners,  his  literary 
pursuits,  and  his  beautiful  gardens  and  col- 
lection of  exotics.  In  1840  he  was  installed 
to  the  deanery  of  Manchester,  whereby  his 
sphere  of  utility  and  benevolence  has  been 
very  much  increased,  although  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  his  leisure  for  literary  occupation 
may  be  considered  almost  at  an  end. 

Mr.  HERBERT'S  writings  are  in  many  lan- 
guages, and  are  as  remarkable  for  their  variety, 
as  for  their  depth,  their  compass,  and  their  cor- 
rectness. As  a  botanist,  it  would  probably  not 
be  too  much  to  say,  that  throughout  the  world 
he  has  no  living  superior ;  as  a  naturalist  and 
ornithologist,  he  has  produced  much  new  and 
accurate  information ;  as  a  preacher,  he  is  one 
of  the  first  in  the  church  of  which  he  is  among 
the  brightest  ornaments.  As  a  classical  scho- 
lar, of  exquisite  taste  and  finish,  his  whole 
mind  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the 
Greek  and  Roman  orators  and  poets,  he  has 
been  favourably  known  from  his  childhood 
upward  ;  and  he  still  continues  to  compose  in 
the  dead  languages  with  fluency  and  grace,  as 
some  of  our  selections  from  his  recent  works 
will  show.  At  a  period  when  the  tongues  of 
northern  Europe,  the  Scandinavian  and  Scla- 
vonic, little  known  even  now,  were  utterly 
unstudied,  Mr.  HERBERT  made  himself  so 
thoroughly  a  proficient  in  their  intricacies  as 
to  compose  in  them  likewise  easily  and  well ; 
as  also  in  the  sweeter  and  more  usually 
known  languages  of  Italy  and  Spain. 

His  poetry  consists,  for  the  most  part,  of 
original  poems  and  translations,  either  on  the 
northern  model,  or  from  the  northern  tongue. 
The  grandest  and  most  sustained  of  all  is 
«*  Attila,"  which  the  Edinburgh  Review  pro- 
nounced the  most  Miltonic  poem  that  has 
appeared  since  "  Paradise  Regained."  Their 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


125 


character  will  be  best  shown  by  the  copious 
extracts  given  below ;  it  may  not  be,  however, 
superfluous  to  add,  that  in  his  knowledge  and 
practice  of  rythm  and  versification,  no  one  is 
superior  to  our  author. 

After  the  withdrawal  of  Lord  FRANCIS 
EGERTON  from  the  chair  of  the  British  Asso- 
ciation, when  it  was  assembled  at  Manchester, 
his  place  was  supplied  by  the  Dean,  who  took 
the  opportunity  of  delivering  a  handsome 
compliment  to  Mr.  EVERETT,  and  America, 
of  which  country,  as  being  in  politics  a  mild 
and  now  conservative  Whig,  he  has  ever  been 


a  steady  and  consistent  friend.  In  politics 
he  gave  his  support  to  the  movers  of  Roman 
Catholic  emancipation;  and  he  seconded  the 
nomination  of  Lord  MOKPETH  for  Yorkshire 
during  the  excitement  previous  to  the  passage 
of  the  reform  bill,  in  favour  of  which  he  voted. 
It  may  not  be  impertinent  to  add,  that  he  has 
recently  been  elected  a  corresponding  member 
of  the  Academy  of  Natural  Sciences  in  Phila- 
delphia. An  edition  of  his  writings,  compris- 
ing his  poems,  criticisms,  and  sermons,  was 
published  by  Bohn,  in  three  large  octavo  vo- 
lumes, in  1842. 


THE  PHANTOM  FIGHT. 

THE  night  was  calm  and  murky  ;  the  soft  gale 
Seem'd  to  diffuse  fair  peace  o'er  hill  and  vale ; 
But  Hilda  slept  not,  whom  the  strong  desire 
Of  her  lost  Hedin  gnaw'd  with  secret  fire. 
To  the  still  grave  she  bent  her  fearless  way, 
While  her  dark  thoughts  with   nature's  gloom 

conspire ; 

Awhile  she  seem'd  in  anguish  to  survey 
The  monumental  pile  above  his  mouldering  clay. 

But  not  to  rnourn  she  sought  that  mansion  lone, 
Or  weep  unseen  upon  the  dreary  stone, 
And  in  her  sorrow  there  was  nothing  meek ; 
Gloomy  her  eye,  and  lowering  seem'd  to  speak 
A  soul  by  deep  and  struggling  cares  distraught ; 
And  the  bright  hectic  flush  upon  her  cheek 
Told  the  mind's  fever,  and  the  darkling  thought 
With  haughty  high  designs  arid  steadfast  passion 
fraught. 

Strange  signs  upon  the  tomb  her  hands  did  trace  ; 
Then  to  the  witching  north  she  turn'd  her  face, 
And  in  slow  measure  breathed  that  fatal  strain, 
Whose  awful  harmony  can  wake  the  slain, 
Rive  the  cold  grave,  and  work  the  charmer's  will. 
Thrice,  as  she  call'd  on  Hedin,  rang  the  plain  ; 
Thrice  echo'd  the  dread  name  from  hill  to  hill ! 
Thrice  the  dark  wold  sent  back  the  sound,  and  all 
was  still. 

Then  shook  the  ground  as  by  an  earthquake  rent, 
And  the  deep  bowels  of  the  tomb  upsent 
A  voice,  a  shriek,  a  terror  ;  sounds  that  seem'd 
Like  those  wild  fancies  by  a  sinner  dream'd ; 
A  clang  of  deadly  weapons,  and  a  shout: 
With  living  strength  the  heaving  granite  teem'd, 
Inward  convulsion,  and  a  fearful  rout,  [out. 

As  if  fiends  fought  with  fiends,  and  hell  was  bursting 

And  then  strange  mirth  broke  frantic  on  her  ear, 
As  if  the  evil  one  was  lurking  near  ; 
While  spectres  wan,  with  visage  pale  and  stark, 
Peep'd  ghastly  through  the  curtain  of  the  dark, 
With  such  dire  laugh  as  phrensy  doth  bewray, 
It  needs  a  gifted  hand,  with  skill  to  mark 


Hilda's  proud  features,  which  no  dread  betray, 
Calm  amid  lonesome  deeds  and  visions  of  dismay. 

On  her  pale  forehead  stream'd  an  eyrie  light 
From  that  low  mansion  of  infernal  night, 
Displaying  her  fair  shape's  majestic  mould 
In  beauteous  stillness ;  but  an  eye  that  told 
More  sense  of  inward  rapture  than  of  wo, 
Thoughts  of  forbidden  joy,  and  yearnings  bold. 
On  the  lone  summits  of  eternal  snow         [glow. 
So  shines,  in  nature's  calm,  the  pure  sky's  azure 

Speechless  she  gazed,  as  from  the  yawning  tomb 
Rose  Hedin,  clad  as  when  he  met  his  doom. 
Dark  was  his  brow,  his  armour  little  bright, 
And  dim  the  lustre  of  his  joyless  sight ; 
His  habergeon  with  blood  all  sprinkled  o'er, 
Portentous  traces  of  that  deadly  fight. 
His  pallid  cheek  a  mournful  sadness  wore, 
And  his  long  flowing  locks  were  all  defiled  with  gore. 

There  have  been  those,  who,  longing  for  the  dead, 
Have  gazed  on  vacancy  till  reason  fled  ; 
And  some  dark  vision  of  the  wandering  mind 
Had  ta'en  the  airy  shape  of  human  kind, 
Giving  strange  voice  to  echoes  of  the  night, 
And  warning  sounds  by  heaven's  high  will  de- 

sign'd  : 

But  this  was  bodily  which  met  her  sight, 
And  palpable  as  once  in  days  of  young  delight. 

High  throbb'd  her  heart;   the  pulse  of  youth 

swell'd  high  ; 

Love's  ardent  lightning  kindled  in  her  eye ; 
And  she  has  sprung  into  the  arms  of  death, 
Clasp'd  his  cold  limbs,  in  kisses  drunk  his  breath  ; 
In  one  wild  trance  of  rapturous  passion  blest, 
And  reckless  of  the  hell  that  yawn'd  beneath. 
On  his  dire  corslet  beats  her  heaving  breast, 
And  by  her  burning  mouth  his  icy  lips  are  press'd. 

Stop,  fearless  beauty  !  hope  not  that  the  grave 
Will  yield  its  wealth,  which  frantic  passion  gave, 
Though  spells  accursed  may  rend  the  solid  earth, 
Hell's  phantoms  never  wake  for  joy  or  mirth  ! 
Hope  not  that  love  with  death's  cold  hand  can  wed, 
Or  draw  night's  spirits  to  a  second  birth  ! 
Mark  the  dire  vision  of  the  mound  with  dread, 
Gaze  on  thy  horrid  work,  and  tremble  for  the  dead  ! 

L2 


126 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


All  arm'd,  behold  her  vengeful  father  rise, 
And  loud,  "  Forbear,  dishonour'd  bride !"  he  cries. 
With  starting  sinews  from  her  grasp  has  sprung 
The  cold  wan  form,  round  which  her  arms  were 
Again  in  panoply  of  warlike  steel  [flung ; 

They  wake  those  echoes  to  which  Leyra  rung ; 
Fierce  and  more  fierce  each  blow  they  seem  to  deal, 
And  smite  with  ruthless  blade  the  limbs  that  nothing 
feel. 

Darkling  she  stands  beside  the  silent  grave, 
And  sees  them  wield  the  visionary  glaive. 
What  charm  has  life  for  her  that  can  compare 
With  the  deep  thrill  of  that  renew'd  despair  ] 
To  raise  the  fatal  ban,  and  gaze  unseen, 
As  once  in  hope,  on  all  her  fondest  care  ! 
In  death's  own  field  life's  trembling  joys  to  glean, 
And  draw  love's  keen  delight  from  that  abhorr'd 
scene  ! 

The  paths  of  bliss  are  joyous,  and  the  breast 
Of  thoughtless  youth  is  easy  to  be  blest. 
There  is  a  charm  in  the  loved  maiden's  sigh ; 
There  is  sweet  pleasure  in  the  calm  blue  sky. 
When  nature  smiles  around ;  the  mild  control 
Of  buoyant  fancy  bids  the  pulse  throb  high  ; 
But  when  strong  passion  has  engross'd  the  soul, 
All  other  joys  are  dead  ;  that  passion  is  its  whole. 

The  beaming  sun  may  wake  the  dewy  spring, 
The  flowers  may  smile,  and  the  blithe  greenwood 

ring  ; 

Soft  music's  touch  may  pour  its  sweetest  lay, 
And  young  hearts  kindle  in  their  hour  of  May  ; 
But  not  for  Hilda  shall  life's  visions  glow ; 
One  dark  deep  thought  must  on  her  bosom  prey. 
Her  joys  lie  buried  in  the  tomb  below,        [flow. 
And  from  night's  phantoms  paleherdeadly  bliss  must 

There  still  each  eve,  as  northern  stories  tell, 
By  that  lone  mound  her  spirit  wakes  the  spell ; 
Whereat  those  warriors,  charmed  by  the  lay, 
Renew,  as  if  in  sport,  the  deadly  fray  : 
Till  when,  as  paler  grows  the  gloom  of  night, 
And  faint  begins  to  peer  the  morning's  ray, 
The  spectre  pageant  fadeth  from  the  sight, 
And  vanisheth  each  form  before  the  eye  of  light. 


THE  DESCENT  TO  HELA. 

HARD  by  the  eastern  gate  of  hell 
In  ancient  time  great  Vala  fell ; 
And  there  she  lies  in  massive  tomb 
Shrouded  by  night's  eternal  gloom, 
Fairer  than  gods,  and  wiser,  she 
Held  the  strange  keys  of  destiny  ; 
And  not  one  dark  mysterious  hour 
Was  veil'd  from  her  all-searching  power. 
She  knew  what  chanced,  ere  time  began, 
Ere  world  there  was,  or  gods,  or  man ; 
And,  had  she  list,  she  might  have  told 
Of  things  that  would  appal  the  bold. 
No  mortal  tongue  has  ever  said 
What  hand  unknown  laid  Vala  dead  ; 


But  yet,  if  rumour  rightly  tells, 
In  her  cold  bones  the  spirit  dwells ; 
And,  if  intruder  bold  presume, 
Her  voice  unfolds  his  hidden  doom  : 
And  oft  the  rugged  ear  of  death 
Is  soothed  by  her  melodious  breath, 
Slow-rising  from  the  hollow  stone 
In  witching  notes  and  solemn  tone ; 
Immortal  strains,  that  tell  of  things, 
When  the  young  down  was  on  the  wings 
Of  hoary  Time,  and  sometimes  swell 
With  such  a  wild  enchanting  spell, 
As  heard  above  would  fix  the  eye 
Of  nature  in  sweet  ecstasy, 
Steal  every  sense  from  mortal  clay, 
And  drag  the  willing  soul  away. 

Dark  is  the  path,  and  wild  the  road, 
That  leads  unto  that  dread  abode ; 
By  shelving  steeps,  through  brier  and  wood, 
Through  yawning  cliff  and  cavern'd  flood, 
Where  thousand  treacherous  spirits  dwell, 
Loose  the  huge  stones,  bid  waters  swell, 
And  guard  the  dire  approach  of  hell. 
And  none,  since  that  high  Lord  of  heaven, 
To  whom  the  sword  of  death  is  given, 
Stern  Odin,  for  young  Balder's  sake, 
Has  dared  the  slumbering  Vala  wake. 
But  love  can  pass  o'er  brier  and  stone 
Unharm'd,  through  floods  and  forests  lone ; 
Love  can  defy  the  treacherous  arm 
Of  spirits  leagued  to  work  its  harm, 
Pierce  the  dread  silence  of  the  tomb, 
And  smooth  the  way,  and  light  the  gloom. 

Whence  art  thou  1  essence  of  delight ! 
Pure  as  the  heavens,  or  dark  as  night ! 
Feeding  the  soul  with  fitful  dreams, 
And  ever  blending  the  extremes 
Of  joys  so  fearful,  cares  so  sweet, 
That  wo  and  bliss  together  meet ! 
Thy  touch  can  make  the  lion  mild, 
And  the  sweet  ringdove  fierce  and  wild. 
Thy  breath  can  rouse  the  gentlest  maid 
That  e'er  on  couch  of  down  was  laid, 
Brace  her  soft  limbs  to  meet  the  cold, 
And  make  her  in  the  danger  bold  ; 
The  breast,  that  heaves  so  lily-white, 
Defy  the  storms  and  brave  the  night, 
While  the  rude  gales  that  toss  her  hair, 
Seem  whispers  of  the  tremulous  air, 
And  heaviest  toils  seem  passing  light, 
And  every  peril  new  delight. 

Oh,  whose  is  that  love-lighted  eye ! 
What  form  is  that,  slow  gliding  by  1 
Sweet  Helga,  risen  from  the  bed 
Where  sleepless  lay  thy  virgin  head, 
Thou  darest  explore  that  dread  abyss, 
To  learn  what  tides  thee,  wo  or  bliss ! 
Whether  it  stand  by  fate  decreed 
That  stern  Angantyr's  breast  shall  bleed, 
Or  he  to  whom  in  secret  turn'd 
Thy  heart  with  gentle  passion  burn'd, 
He  whom  thy  soul  had  learn'd  to  cherish, 
For  thy  dear  sake  untimely  perish. 

The  night  was  calm  ;  a  pallid  glow 
Stream'd  o'er  the  wide  extended  snow, 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


127 


Which  like  a  silvery  mantle  spread 

O'er  copse,  and  dale,  and  mountain's  head. 

Oh,  who  has  witness'd  near  the  pole 

The  full-orb'd  moon  in  glory  roll  ! 

More  splendid  shines  her  lustrous  robe, 

And  larger  seems  the  radiant  globe ; 

And  that  serene  unnumber'd  choir, 

That  pave  the  heaven's  blue  arch  with  fire, 

Shoot  through  the  night  with  brighter  gleam, 

Like  distant  suns,  their  twinkling  beam. 

While  in  the  north  its  streamers  play, 

Like  mimic  shafts  of  orient  day  ; 

The  wondrous  splendour,  fiery  red, 

Round  half  the  welkin  seems  to  spread, 

And  flashes  on  the  summits  bleak 

Of  snowy  crag  or  ice-clad  peak, 

Lending  a  feeble  blush,  to  cheer 

The  twilight  of  the  waning  year. 

The  thoughtful  eye  undazzled  there 

May  pierce  the  liquid  realms  of  air, 

And  the  rapt  soul  delighted  gaze 

On  countless  worlds  that  round  it  blaze. 

No  floating  vapour  dims  the  sight 

That  dives  through  the  blue  vault  of  night, 

While  distance  yields  to  fancy's  power, 

And  rapture  rules  the  silent  hour. 

A  calm  so  holy  seem'd  to  brood 
O'er  white-robed  hill  and  frozen  flood, 
A  charm  so  solemn  and  so  still, 
That  sure,  if  e'er  the  sprites  of  ill 
Shrink  from  the  face  of  nature,  this 
Must  be  the  hallow'd  hour  of  bliss, 
When  no  dark  elves  or  goblins  rude 
Dare  on  the  walks  of  man  intrude. 

Pure  as  the  night,  at  that  calm  hour, 
Young  Helga  left  her  virgin  bower  ; 
And  trod  unseen  the  lonely  road 
To  gloomy  Hela's  dire  abode. 
The  broken  path  and  toilsome  way 
Adown  a  sloping  valley  lay, 
Where  solid  rocks  on  either  side 
Might  have  the  hand  of  time  defied ; 
But  some  convulsion  of  old  earth 
Had  given  the  narrow  passage  birth. 
Onward  with  labouring  steps  and  slow 
The  virgin  pass'd,  nor  fear'd  a  foe. 
The  moon  threw  gloriously  bright 
On  the  gray  stones  her  streaming  light; 
Till  now  the  valley  wider  grew, 
And  the  scene  scowl'd  with  dreariest  hue. 
From  the  steep  crag  a  torrent  pouring 
Dash'd  headlong  down,  with  fury  roaring, 
Through  frozen  heaps  that  midway  hung; 
And,  where  the  beams  their  radiance  flung, 
Columns  of  ice  and  massive  stone 
Blending  and  undistinguished  shone  ; 
While  each  dark  shade  their  forms  between 
Lent  deeper  horror  to  the  scene ; 
And  gloomy  pines,  that  far  above 
Lean'd  from  the  high  and  rocky  cove, 
With  frozen  spray  their  heads  besprent 
Under  the  hoary  burden  bent. 
Before  her  spread  a  forest  drear 
Of  antique  trees  with  foliage  sere; 
Wreath'd  and  fantastic  were  their  roots, 


And  one  way  stretch'd  their  stunted  shoots : 

Each  hollow  trunk  some  beast  might  hide, 

Or  fiends  more  wily  there  abide. 

She  seem'd  in  that  strange  wilderness 

A  spirit  sent  to  cheer  and  bless, 

A  beauteous  form  of  radiant  light 

Charming  the  fearful  brow  of  night. 

The  wind,  with  a  low  whisper'd  sigh, 

Came  rushing  through  the  branches  dry  ; 

Heavy  and  mournful  was  the  sound, 

And  seem'd  to  sweep  along  the  ground. 

The  virgin's  heart  throbb'd  high  ;  the  blood 

Beat  at  its  doors  with  hastier  flood  : 

But  firm  of  purpose,  on  she  pass'd, 

Nor  heeded  the  low  rustling  blast. 

A  mist  hung  o'er  the  barren  ground, 

And  soon  she  was  all  mantled  round 

In  a  thick  gloom,  so  dark  and  dread, 

That  hardly  wist  she  where  to  tread. 

Mute  horror  brooded  o'er  the  heath, 

And  all  was  dark  and  still  as  death  : 

When  sudden  a  loud  gust  of  wind, 

Shaking  the  forest,  roar'd  behind, 

And  wolves  seem'd  howling  in  the  brake, 

And  in  her  path  the  hissing  snake. 

Then  all  was  hush'd ;  till  swift  and  sheen 

A  meteor  flash'd  upon  the  scene ; 

A  hoarse  laugh  burst  upon  her  ear, 

And  then  a  hideous  shriek  of  fear. 

Dire  phantoms,  in  the  gloom  conceal'd, 

Were  instant  by  that  light  reveal'd  ; 

For,  lurking  sly,  behind  each  tree 

Strange  faces  peep'd  with  spiteful  glee, 

And  ghastly  forms  and  shapes  obscene 

Glided  the  hoary  rocks  between. 

Oh,  who  shall  save  thee,  Helga !  mark 

The  ambush'd  spirits  of  the  dark  ! 

Those  are  the  powers  accurs'd,  that  ride 

The  blasting  whirlwind,  and  preside 

O'er  nature's  wrecks ;  whose  hands  delight 

To  weave  the  tempest  of  the  night, 

Spread  the  red  pestilence,  and  throw 

A  deeper  gloom  o'er  human  wo  ! 

Those  are  the  fiends,  that  prompt  the  mind 

To  deeds  of  darkness,  and  behind 

Send  their  fell  crew  with  sickening  breath, 

Despair,  and  infamy,  and  death ! 

Nor  yet  unmoved  the  virgin  gazed ; 
She  trembled  as  that  meteor  blazed ; 
But  high  she  spread  her  white  arms  sheen, 
And  thus  she  pray'd  to  beauty's  queen. 

«  Immortal  Freya  !  if  e'er  my  mind 
Has  to  thy  gentle  rites  inclined ; 
If  e'er  my  hand  fresh  garlands  wove 
Of  flowers,  the  symbols  of  chaste  love, 
And  cull'd  from  all  its  blooming  hoards 
The  sweets  which  opening  spring  affords ; 
If  I  have  knit  the  silken  twine 
To  deck  thy  pure  and  honour'd  shrine ; 
Immortal  Froya,  attend  my  prayer ! 
To  a  lone  virgin  succour  bear  ! 
Give  me  to  reach  great  Vala's  grave, 
And  from  the  powers  of  darkness  save !" 

Fair  Helga  spoke ;  and  as  she  pray'd, 
A  charm  descended  on  the  maid, 


128 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


Like  the  sweet  fall  of  measured  sound, 
Or  dew  distilfd  on  holy  ground  ; 
And  vanish'd  seem'd  the  powers  of  ill, 
And  nature  smiled  serene  and  still. 
The  darksome  mist  was  roll'd  away, 
And  tranquil,  as  the  fall  of  day, 
A  milder  gloom  imbrown'd  the  way  ; 
While  through  that  wild  and  barren  scene 
The  lofty  gates  of  hell  were  seen. 
A  strain  delightful  pouring  slowly 
Breathed  in  soft  cadence  pure  and  holy  : 
And  the  strange  voice  she  long'd  to  hear 
Stole  gently  on  her  wondering  ear. 
Hark  !  the  wild  notes  are  sweetly  swelling, 
Now  upon  things  unearthly  dwelling, 
And  now  of  time's  old  secrets  telling. 

To  rapture  charm'd,  fair  Helga  long 
Stood  listening  that  immortal  song ; 
But  onward  now  she  sprang  with  haste, 
And  through  hell's  portals  quickly  paced. 
Then,  starting  from  his  gory  bed, 
The  whelp  of  Hela  raised  his  head, 
And,  as  he  view'd  the  daring  maid, 
Gnash'd  his  keen  fangs,  and  fiercely  bay'd. 
His  glowing  eyes  with  fury  scowl'd, 
And  long  and  loud  the  monster  howl'd: 
For  well  he  mark'd  athwart  the  gloom 
A  living  form  by  Vala's  tomb. 
But  unap'pall'd  the  virgin  stood, 
And  thus,  in  calm  unalter'd  mood : 

"  By  the  force  of  Runic  song, 
By  the  might  of  Odin  strong, 
By  the  lance  and  glittering  shield 
Which  the  maids  of  slaughter  wield, 
By  the  gems  whose  wondrous  light 
Beams  in  Freya's  necklace  bright, 
By  the  tomb  of  Balder  bold, 
I  adjure  thine  ashes  cold. 
Vala,  list  a  virgin's  prayer  ! 
Speak  !  Hialmar's  doom  declare  !" 

She  ceased ;  when  breathing  sad  and  slow, 
Like  some  unwilling  sound  of  wo, 
A  sweetly  solemn  voice  was  sent 
Forth  from  that  gloomy  monument. 

"  Deep-bosom'd  in  the  northern  fells 
A  pigmy  race  immortal  dwells, 
Whose  hands  can  forge  the  falchion  well 
With  many  a  wondrous  mutter'd  spell. 
If  bold  Hialmar's  might  can  gain 
A  weapon  from  their  lone  domain, 
Nor  stone  nor  iron  shall  withstand 
The  dint  of  such  a  gifted  brand ; 
Its  edge  shall  drink  Angantvr's  blood, 
And  life's  tide  issue  with  the  flood. 
Victorious,  at  night's  silent  hour, 
The  chief  shall  reach  fair  Helga's  bower. 
But  thou,  who  darest  with  living  tread 
Invade  these  realms,  where  rest  the  dead  ; 
Breaking  the  slumbers  of  the  tomb 
With  charms  that  rend  hell's  awful  gloom ; 
Who  seek'st  to  scan,  with  prescience  bold, 
What  gods  from  mortal  man  withhold, 
Soon  shall  thine  heart  despairing  rue 
The  hour  that  gave  these  shades  to  view, 
And  Odin's  wrath  thy  steps  pursue." 


It  ceased  ;  and  straight  a  lurid  flash 
Burst  through  the  gloom  with  thunder  crash. 
It  lighted  all  death's  dreary  caves, 
It  glared  on  thousand  thousand  graves. 
Hell's  iron  chambers  rang  withal, 
And  pale  ghosts  started  at  the  call; 
While,  as  the  gather'd  tempest  spreads, 
Rush'd  the  red  terror  o'er  their  heads. 
And  well  I  deem,  those  realms  might  show 
Unnumber'd  shapes  of  various  wo ; 
Lamenting  forms,  a  ghastly  crew, 
By  the  strange  gleam  were  given  to  view ; 
And  writhing  agony  was  there, 
And  sullen  motionless  despair : 
Sights,  that  might  freeze  life's  swelling  tide, 
Blanch  the  warm  cheek  of  throbbing  pride, 
And  shake  fair  reason's  frail  defence, 
Though  strongly  nerved  by  innocence. 
Nor  dared  the  breathless  virgin  gaze 
On  hell's  dread  cells  and  devious  ways ; 
Back  rush'd  unto  her  heart  the  blood, 
And  horror  stay'd  its  curdling  flood; 
As  fainting  nigh  the  gates  of  hell 
In  speechless  trance  young  Helga  fell. 
Her  glowing  lips  are  pale  and  cold  ; 
Her  dainty  limbs  of  heavenly  mould, 
Fashion'd  for  bliss  and  form'd  to  rest 
On  couch  of  down  by  love  carest, 
Lie  by  yon  damp  and  mouldering  tomb, 
Faded,  and  stript  of  mortal  bloom ; 
Like  flowers  on  broken  hawthorn  bough, 
Or  snow-wreaths  on  the  mountain's  brow. 

Shall  e'er  that  bosom  move  again, 
To  know  love's  subtle  bliss  or  pain  ? 
Shall  e'er  those  languid  beauties  stir  1 
Shall  heaven's  pure  light  revisit  her  ] 
Or  is  she  thus  enveloped  quite 
By  curtain  of  eternal  night  1 
And  ye,  who  in  life's  varied  scene 
Still  its  frail  joys  and  sorrows  glean, 
Say,  does  her  fate  for  pity  cry, 
Or  were  it  best  to  sink  and  die, 
While  innocence  is  chaste  and  pure, 
And  flattering  fancies  yet  allure 
To  leave  the  hopes  of  youth  half-tasted, 
To  fly,  before  its  dreams  are  blasted, 
Its  charms  foredone,  its  treasures  wasted  ; 
Ere  guilty  bliss  with  secret  smart 
Has  touch'd  the  yet  untainted  heart, 
To  shun  the  pleasure  and  the  crime, 
Nor  trust  the  wintry  storms  of  time  ] 

True  to  the  charge,  some  guardian  power 
Watch'd  over  Helga's  deathlike  hour; 
Whether  by  pity  moved  and  love 
Bright  Freya  glided  from  above, 
Spread  round  her  limbs  a  viewless  spell, 
And  snatch'd  her  from  the  jaws  of  hell ; 
Or  Odin's  self  reserved  the  fair 
For  other  woes  and  worse  despair ; 
For  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  day 
In  her  still  bower  young  Helga  lay, 
And  waked,  as  from  a  feverish  dream, 
To  hail  the  morning's  orient  beam. 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


129 


SOLITUDE. 

'T  WERE  sweet  to  lie  on  desert  land, 
Or  where  some  lone  and  barren  strand 
Hears  the  Pacific  waters  roll, 
And  views  the  stars  of  Southern  pole ! 
'Twere  best  to  live  where  forests  spread 
Beyond  fell  man's  deceitful  tread, 
Where  hills  on  hills  proud  rising  tower, 
And  native  groves  each  wild  embower, 
Whose  rocks  but  echo  to  the  howl 
Of  wandering  beast  or  clang  of  fowl ! 
The  eagle  there  may  strike  and  slay  ; 
The  tiger  spring  upon  his  prey  ; 
The  cayman  watch  in  sedgy  pool 
The  tribes  that  glide  through  waters  cool ; 
The  tender  nestlings  of  the  brake 
May  feed  the  slily  coiling  snake : 
And  the  small  worm  or  insect  weak 
May  quiver  in  the  warbler's  beak: 
All  there  at  least  their  foes  discern, 
And  each  his  prey  may  seize  in  turn. 
But  man,  when  passions  fire  the  soul, 
And  reason  stoops  to  love's  control, 
Deceitful  deals  the  murderous  blow 
Alike  on  trustiest  friend  or  foe: 
And  oft  the  venom'd  hand  of  hate 
Points  not  the  bitterest  shaft  of  fate  : 
But  faithless  friendship's  secret  fang 
Tears  the  fond  heart  with  keener  pang, 
And  love  demented  weaves  a  spell 
More  dreadful  than  the  pains  of  hell. 


FUTURITY. 

SAT,  when  the  spirit  fleets  away 
From  its  frail  house  of  mortal  clay, 
When  the  cold  limbs  to  earth  return, 
Or  rest  in  proudly  sculptur'd  urn, 
Does  still  oblivion  quench  the  fire 
That  warm'd  the  heart  with  chaste  desire  ? 
Do  all  our  fond  affections  lie 
Buried  in  dark  eternity1? 
Or  may  the  souls  of  those  we  love 
In  darkness  oft  around  us  move, 
Drawn  back  by  faithful  thoughts  to  earth, 
Haunt  the  dear  scenes  that  gave  them  birth, 
And  still  of  former  ties  aware, 
Float  on  the  gently  sighing  air? 
It  may  not  be,  a  flame  so  bright 
Should  ever  sink  in  endless  night ; 
And  if,  when  fails  the  transient  breath, 
The  soul  can  spurn  the  bonds  of  death, 
Love's  gentle  spirit  ne'er  shall  die, 
But  dove-like  with  it  mount  the  sky  ! 
Oh,  'tis  not  sure  the  poet's  dream, 
Sweet  fancy's  visionary  theme. 
Where'er  the  fleeting  soul  shall  go, 
Still  will  our  pure  affections  glow, 
Though  life's  frail  thoughts  are  past  and  vain, 
The  sense  of  good  must  still  remain, 
And  death,  that  conquers  all,  shall  ne'er 
From  the  delighted  spirit  tear 
The  memory  of  a  mother's  care ! 
17 


That  fond  remembrance  still  shall  cling 
In  heaven  to  life's  immortal  spring ! 
And  thou,  whose  bright  and  cherish'd  form, 
Clasp'd  to  his  heart  with  rapture  warm, 
Oft  wakes  the  humble  poet's  eye 
To  more  than  mortal  ecstasy, 
Whose  blooming  cherubs,  fresh  as  May, 
In  harmless  sport  around  him  play, 
Say,  does  he  dream  !  shall  joy  like  this 
Pass  as  a  shadowy  scene  of  bliss ? 
Or,  when  that  beauteous  shape  shall  fade, 
And  his  cold  tongue  in  dust  be  laid, 
Shall  the  fond  spirits  ever  glow 
With  love  together  link'd  as  now  ? 
It  is  not  false  !  Love's  subtle  fire 
Shall  live,  though  mortal  limbs  expire  : 
E'en  now  from  heaven's  ethereal  height 
Hialmar  turns  his  wistful  sight, 
To  Sigtune's  towers,  where,  bathed  in  tears, 
Mid  anxious  hopes  and  throbbing  fears, 
He  sees  the  lovely  mourner  lie 
With  pallid  cheek  and  languid  eye. 
Ne'er  shall  her  bold  victorious  lord 
Return  to  breathe  the  blissful  word ; 
By  Samsoe's  rocks  his  body  lies, 
To  love  a  bleeding  sacrifice  : 
And  pensive  there,  though  aid  is  vain. 
And  past  the  poignant  throb  of  pain, 
Friendship  bends  sadly  to  survey 
The  unconscious  form  and  lifeless  clay. 


JEALOUSY. 

FOUR  things  the  wise  man  knew  not  to  declare, 
The  eagle's  path  athwart  the  fields  of  air ; 
The  ship's  deep  furrow  thro'  the  ocean's  spray ; 
The  serpent's  winding  on  the  rock  ;  the  way 
Of  man  with  woman.     Into  water  clear 
The  jealous  Indian  rudely  thrust  his  spear, 
And,  quick  withdrawing,  pointed  how  the  wave 
Subsided  into  stillness.     The  dark  grave, 
Which  knows  all  secrets,  can  alone  reclaim 
The  fatal  doubt  once  cast  on  woman's  fame. 
Night's  shade  fell  thick;  the  evening  was  far  spent 
Ere  proud  Montalban  to  her  chamber  went. 
Slowly  he  enter'd,  and  with  cautious  glance 
Cast  his  eye  round,  before  he  did  advance ; 
Then  placed  a  bowl  of  liquor  by  her  side, 
And  thus  severe  address'd  his  sorrowing  bride : 

"  The  night  advances,  Julia :  hast  thou  pray'd 
To  Him  whose  eye  can  pierce  the  thickest  shade. 
Who,  robed  in  truth,  is  never  slow  to  mark 
The  hidden  guilty  secrets  of  the  dark?" 
•     "Yes,  honour'd  Albert,  I  have  duly  learn'd 
That  prayer  is  sorrow's  balm,"  the  wife  return'd. 
"  The  voice  of  God  is  awful,  when  the  breast 
Of  the  weak  sufferer  is  by  guilt  oppress'd  ; 
But  mercy  dawns  upon  the  patient  head, 
The  peace  of  Him  who  for  our  failings  bled." 

Her  words  some  tender  sympathy  awoke, 
But  he  repress'd  it,  and  thus  sternly  spoke. 
"  If  morning's  dawn  must  glimmer  on  our  bier, 
Say,  canst  thou  meet  the  future  without  fear  1 


130 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


Is  thy  soul  chasten'd,  and  resign'd  to  go 
This  night  to  everlasting  bliss  or  wo?" 

His  accents  falter'd ;  but  unmoved  he  stood, 
And,  firm  of  heart,  his  beauteous  victim  view'd. 
He  wore  the  ghastly  aspect  of  the  dead, 
But  his  lip  quiver'd,  and  his  eye  was  red ; 
And  such  dark  feelings  character'd  his  gaze, 
That  Julia  shrunk  with  terror  and  amaze. 
She  paused ;  her  eye  fell  doubtful  on  that  bowl ; 
O'er  all  her  frame  a  shuddering  horror  stole,  [raise 
Then  thus  with  downcast  look ;   (she  dared  not 
I.     Her  eye  to  meet  again  that  fearful  gaze:) 

"Yes,  Albert,  I  have  made  my  peace  with  Heaven, 
At  whose    pure   shrine   my  secret   thoughts   are 

shriven. 

Whene'er  fate  calls,  this  humble  soul  obeys; 
The  tear  of  sorrow  asks  no  fond  delays. 
With  tremulous  hope  the  lingering  heart  may  cling 
To  life's  blest  walks,  illumed  by  pleasure's  spring. 
Cold  duty's  path  is  not  so  blithely  trod, 
Which  leads  the  mournful  spirit  to  its  God." 

She  spoke,  half-timid,  and  presaging  ill 
From  his  knit  brow  and  look  severely  still. 
The  thought  of  death  came  o'er  her ;  and  the  mind 
Disown'd  her  words,  more  fearful  than  resign'd. 
Love's  secret  influence  heaved  the  conscious  breast 
With  fluttering  pulse,  that  would  not  be  at  rest 
Stern  Albert  mark'd  the  tremor  of  her  brow, 
And  the  cheek's  fitful  colour  come  and  go. 
His  eye  was  big  with  anguish,  a*  it  stray'd 
O'er  all  the  charms,  which  her  thin  robe  betray'd  ; 
The  perfect  loveliness  of  that  dear  form 
In  its  full  spring  of  beauty  ripe  and  warm  ; 
And  never  had  she  look'd  so  wondrous  fair, 
So  precious,  so  surpassing  all  compare, 
In  blither  hours,  when  innocent  delight 
Flush'd  her  young  cheek  and  sparkled  in  her  sight, 
As  languid,  in  that  careless  garb  array'd, 
Half-lit  by  the  pale  lamp,  half-hid  in  shade. 
He  would  have  given  health,  life,  eternity, 
The  joys  that  fleet,  the  hopes  that  never  die, 
Once  more  in  tenderest  rapture  to  have  press'd 
That  shape  angelic  to  his  troubled  breast ; 
But  pride  forbade,  arid  from  each  living  charm 
Drew  fiercer  hate,  which  love  could  not  disarm. 
Upon  that  form  of  beauty,  now  his  bane, 
Pollution  seem'd  to  have  impress'd  a  stain. 
Awhile  he  paced  the  floor  with  heavy  stride, 
Then  gazed  once  more  upon  his  sorrowing  bride  ; 
And,  parting  with  his  hands  the  glossy  hair 
On  the  white  forehead  of  the  silent  fair, 
Look'd  wistfully  ;  then,  bending  sad  and  slow, 
Fix'd  one  long  kiss  upon  that  brow  of  snow, 
It  seem'd  as  if  love's  spirit  in  his  soul 
Was  battling  with  his  passion's  fierce  control. 
He  sat  before  her ;  on  one  hand  reclined 
His  face,  which  told  the  struggle  of  his  mind ; 
The  other  held  the  bowl :  she  raised  her  head, 
As,  slow  his  hand  extending,  thus  he  said: 

"  Drink,  Julia ;  pledge  me  in  this  cup  of  peace ; 
Drink  deep,  and  let  thy  tears  of  sorrow  cease." 

Her  eye  was  fix'd  and  motionless;  her  cheek 
Had  lost  its  changeful  hue ;  she  did  not  speak. 
Her  nerves  seem'd  numb'd,  and  icy  horror  press'd, 
Like  a  cold  weight  of  lead,  upon  her  breast. 


"  Drink,  Julia,"  spoke  again  that  dreadful  voice : 
"  Drink,  Julia,  deep  ;  for  thou  hast  now  no  choice." 

A  fatal  shiver  seem'd  to  reach  her  soul, 
And  her  hand  trembled,  as  it  touch'd  the  bowl ; 
But  duty's  call  prevail'd  o'er  shapeless  dread  ; 
She  look'd  with  silent  terror,  and  obey'd. 
I  know  not,  whether  it  was  fancy's  power    [hour, 
Which  smote  each  conscious  sense  in  that  dread 
Or  whether,  doom'd  at  mortal  guilt  to  grieve, 
Thus  his  good  angel  sadly  took  his  leave ; 
But  he  half-started,  and  in  truth  believed 
That  a  deep  lengthen'd  sob  was  faintly  heaved, 
And  some  dark  shuddering  form  behind  him  pass'd, 
Which  o'er  her  shape  its  fearful  shadow  cast. 
Breathless  he  listen'd  by  his  thoughts  appall'd ; 
(The  hour  of  mercy  could  not  be  recall'd,) 
Then  to  his  lips  in  turn  the  draught  applied, 
Which  should  in  death  unite  him  with  his  bride. 


THE  MOTHER'S  PLEA. 

"  I  STAXD  not  here  in  judgment,  haughty  priest ; 
Nature  forbids.     Against  a  mother's  love, 
Against  a  wife's  firm  faith,  there  is  no  law, 
Not  e'en  to  fellest  nations  gorged  with  flesh 
Of  mangled  captives.     Whence  should  we  adore 
Thy  deity,  who  mew'd  like  one  infirm, 
In  that  low  fane,  sends  forth  his  ministers 
To  deeds  of  pitiless  rape  ]     Our  God  bestows 
Harvest  and  summer  fruits,  chaining  the  winds 
Which  never  lash  our  groves.     Ye  bend  the  knee 
To  the  carved  crucifix  in  temples  wrought 
By  human  hands ;  ye  lift  the  hymn  of  praise 
By  torches'  glare  at  noon  day :  but  the  God 
We  serve,  best  honour'd  by  the  glorious  ray 
Of  his  great  luminary,  dwells  not  here 
Prison'd  midst  walls,  frail  work  of  mortal  skill. 
We  worship  him  abroad,  under  the  vault 
Of  his  own  heaven  ;  yon  star-paved  firmament, 
The  wilderness,  the  flood,  the  wreathed  clouds 
That  float  from  those  far  mountains  robed  in  mist, 
The  summits  unapproach'd,  untouch'd  by  time, 
Snow-clad,  are  his  ;  too  vast  to  be  confined 
He  fills  his  works.     Bow  ye  the  trembling  knee 
To  your  own  idols  and  that  murd'rous  law 
Which  bids  you  seize  a  mother's  callow  brood 
In  hour  of  peace  !     The  Carib  doth  not  this, 
The  man-devouring  Cabre  !     Are  ye  slaves 
Unto  the  spirit  of  ill  who  wars  with  God, 
lolokiamo,  the  worst  foe  to  man  ? 
That,  riving  thus  the  hallow'd  ties  of  life," 
Ye  work  his  evil  will,  and  mar  the  scheme 
Of  Him  beneficent,  whose  fostering  care 
Amid  these  wilds  is  over  all  his  works. 
If  there  be  one  great  Being,  who  hears  our  prayer, 
When  that  sonorous  trump,  which  but  to  view 
Were  death  to 'woman,  through  each  leafy  glade 
Ten  leagues  aloof  sends  forth  the  voice  of  praise, 
Oh,  tremble  at  his  wrath  !     My  little  ones, 
If  e'er,  restored,  ye  reach  your  father's  hut, 
Tell  him  I  live  but  while  the  fervent  hope 
Of  freedom  and  reunion  with  my  own 
Leaves  life  its  worth.    That  lost  I  welcome  death." 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


131 


THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 

SLOW  struggling  through  the  mist,  that  reek'd  to 

heaven, 

Day  dawn'd  on  Chalons'  plain.  Faintly  it  show'd 
Indistinct  horror,  and  the  ghastly  form 
Of  havoc  lingering  o'er  its  bloody  work. 
Oh  for  the  tongue  that  told  how  once  the  fiend 
Over  immortal  Athens  from  his  wing 
Scatter'd  disease  and  death  !  and,  worse  than  death, 
The  living  curse  of  sunder'd  charities, 
Whereby  the  fount  of  feeling  and  love's  pulse 
Was  stay'd  within  through  dread,  and,  when  most 
4         lack'd, 

The  hospitable  mansion  sternly  closed 
Against  a  parent's  prayer,  while  corses  foul, 
On  the  barr'd  threshold's  edge  lay  uninhumed, 
Exhaling  plague  !     Oh,  for  the  voice  of  him, 
Who  drew  the  curtain  of  Apocalypse, 
To  man  declaring  things  for  man  too  high, 
That  I  may  speak  the  horrors,  which  broke  slow 
Upon  the  sight  at  dawn !     The  ample  field, 
Which,  but  short  hours  before  was  redolent 
With  herbs  and  healthful  odours,  now  uptorn 
By  thousand  hoofs,  batter'd  beneath  the  strength 
Of  wheels  and  horse  and  man,  a  barren  mass 
Of  dark  confusion  seem'd;  a  trampled  waste 
Without  the  blush  of  verdure,  but  with  gore 
Distain'd,  and  steep'd  in  the  cold  dews  of  death. 
Thick  strewn,  and  countless,  as  those  winged  tribes 
Which  clamoring  blacken  all  the  grassy  mead 
In  sickly  autumn,  when  the  wither'd  leaves 
Drift  on  the  moaning  gale,  lay  swords  and  pikes, 
Bucklers,  and  broken  cuirasses,  and  casques, 
Shower'd  by  the  pelting  battle,  when  it  rush'd 
With  such  hoarse  noise  as  does  the  foaming  surge 
Upon  some  rocky  ledge,  where  ^Eolus 
Bids  foul  winds  blow.     But  not  of  arms  alone 
Rent  fragments,  and  the  broken  orb  of  shields 
Embossed  with  gold,  and  gorgeous  housings  lay 
Cumbering  that  fearful  waste.    The  mind  shrinks 

back 

From  the  thick  scatter'd  carnage,  the  dread  heaps 
That  late  were  living  energy  and  youth, 
Hope  emulous,  and  lofty  daring ;  strength, 
Which  raised  again  from  that  corrupting  sod, 
Thro'  Ardenne's  desert  unto  utmost  Rhine 
Might  have  spread  culture ;  thousands  whose  blithe 

voice 

Might  yet  have  caroll'd  to  the  breath  of  morn, 
Or  joy'd  the  banquet,  or  with  gifted  hand 
Waked  the  ecstatic  lyre,  adorning  still 
With  rich  diversity  of  active  power 
Cottage  or  palace,  the  marmorean  hall's 
Proud  masonry,  with  Roman  wealth  o'erlaid, 
Or  of  Sarmatian  hut  the  pastoral  hearth, 
Abode  of  love,  where  fond  remembrance  now 
Looks  sadly  over  hills  and  native  dales 
For  forms  beloved  in  vain,  which  far  away, 
Spurn'd  by  the  grazed  ox,  shall  heap  the  sod 
Of  Chalons'  glebe  with  undistinguished  clay. 
Alas ! — If  erst,  on  that  unhallow'd  eve 
When  Ramah  quaked  with  dread,  the  deep  lament 
Of  Rachel  mourning  for  her  babes  appall'd 
Utmost  Judea,  and  the  holy  banks 


Of  Jordan  unto  Syria's  frontier  bounds, 
What  ear,  save  Thine  to  whom  all  plaints  arise, 
Might  have  abided  the  commingling  wail 
Of  matrons  widow'd,  and  of  maids  that  day 
Bereft  of  bridal  hopes  !  like  those  lorn  men 
Hard  by  the  rock  of  Rimmon,  when  the  Lord 
Smote  Benjamin  in  all  his  fenced  towns, 
Virgin,  and  wife,  and  infant  with  the  sword 
Utterly  destroying ;  and  one  oath  restrain'd 
Each  willing  fair  in  Israel ;  yet  brides 
For  these  still  bioom'd  in  Gilead,  and,  what  time 
The  vintage  glow'd,  in  Shiloh  danced  with  song 
Ripe  for  connubial  joys.     But  whence  for  these 
Shall  ravaged  Europe  light  the  nuptial  torch, 
Whose  hopes   have  wither'd  as   the  herbs,  that 

bloom'd 

Odorous  yestermorn  on  Chalons'  plain  ! 
There  foes  on  foes,  friends  lay  with  icy  cheek 
Pressing  their  maim'd  companions.    On  that  field 
The  eye  might  trace  all  war's  vicissitudes 
Impress'd  in  fatal  characters ;  the  rush 
Headlong  of  flight,  and  thundering  swift  pursuit, 
Rescue  and  rally,  and  the  struggling  front 
Of  hard  contention.     Strewn  on  every  side 
Lay  dead  and  dying,  like  the  scatter'd  seed 
Cast  by  the  husbandman,  with  other  thoughts 
Of  unstain'd  harvest;  chariots  overthrown, 
Shields  cast  behind,  and  wheels,  and  sever'd  limbs, 
Rider  and  steed,  and  all  the  merciless  shower 
Of  arrows  barb'd,  strong  shafts,  and  feather'd  darts 
Wing'd  with  dismay.     As  when  of  Alpine  snows 
The  secret  fount  is  open'd,  and  dread  sprites, 
That  dwell  in  those  crystalline  solitudes      [moan, 
Have  loosed  the  avalanche  whose  deep-thundering 
Predicting  ruin,  on  his  couch  death-doom'd 
The  peasant  hears ;  waters  on  waters  rush 
Uptearing  all  impediment,  woods,  rocks, 
Ice  rifted  from  the  deep  caerulean  glens, 
Herds  striving  with  the  stream,  and  bleating  flocks, 
The  dwellers  of  the  dale,  with  all  of  life 
That  made  the  cottage  blithesome  ;  but  ere  long 
The  floods  o'erpass ;  the  ravaged  valley  lies 
Tranquil  and  mute  in  ruin.     So  confused 
In  awful  stillness  lay  the  battle's  wreck. 
Here  heaps  of  slain,  as  by  an  eddy  cast,       [steel, 
And  hands,  which,  stiff,  still  clench'd  the  ruddy 
Show'd  rallied  strength,  and  life  sold  dearly.  There 
Equal  and  mingled  havoc,  where  the  tide 
Doubtful  had  paused  whether  to  ebb  or  flow. 
Some  prone  were  cast,  some  headlong,  some  supine ; 
Others  yet  strove  with  death.     The  sallow  cheek 
Of  the  slain  Avar  press'd  the  mangled  limbs 
Of  yellow-hair'd  Sicambrian,  whose  blue  eyes 
Still  swum  in  agony ;  Gelonic  steed 
Lay  panting  on  the  cicatrized  form 
Of  his  grim  lord,  whose  painted  brow  convulsed 
Seem'd  a  ferocious  mockery.     There,  mix'd 
The  Getic  archer  with  the  savage  Hun, 
And  Dacian  lancers  lay,  and  sturdy  Goths 
Pierced  by  Sarmatian  pike.     There,  once  his  pride 
The  Sueve's  long-flowing  hair  with  gore  besprent, 
And  Alans  stout,  in  Roman  tunic  clad. 
Some  of  apparel  stripp'd  by  coward  bands 
That  vulture-like  upon  the  skirts  of  war 
Ever  hang  merciless ;  their  naked  forms 


132 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


In  death  yet  beauteous,  though  the  eburnean  limbs 
Blood  had  defiled.     There  some,  whom  thirst  all 

night 

Had  parch'd,  too  feeble  from  that  fellowship 
To  drag  their  fever'd  heads,  aroused  at  dawn 
From  fearful  dreaming  to  new  hope  and  life, 
Die  rifled  by  the  hands  whose  help  they  crave. 
Others  lie  maim'd  and  torn,  too  strong  to  die, 
Imploring  death.     Oh,  for  some  friendly  aid 
To  staunch  their  burning  wounds  and  cool  the  lip 
Refresh'd  with  water  from  an  unstain'd  spring ! 
But  that  foul  troop  of  plunderers  unrestrain'd 
Ply  their  abhorred  trade,  of  groan  or  prayer 
Heedless,  destroying  whom  war's  wrath  had  spared. 
Some,  phrensied,  crawl  unto  the  brook,  which  late 
Pellucid  rolfd,  now  choked  with  slain,  and  swell'd 
With  the  heart's  blood  of  thousands ;  gore  they  quaff 
For  water,  to  allay  the  fatal  thirst  [God ! 

Which  only  death  may  quench.     And  this,  great 
This  is  thy  field  of  glory  and  of  joy 
To  man,  the  noblest  of  created  forms, 
In  thy  pure  image  moulded  !     This  the  meed 
For  which  exalted  natures  toil  and  strive, 
Placed  in  such  high  preeminence,  to  be 
Thine  own  similitude,  in  glory  next 
Thine  incorporeal  ministers !     Long  while 
Upon  that  loathly  scene  gazed  Attila 
Touch'd  by  no  thought  of  sufferings. 


HYMN  TO  DEATH. 

WHAT  art  thou,  O  relentless  visitant, 
Who  with  an  earlier  or  later  call, 
Dost  summon  every  spirit  that  abides 
In  this  our  fleshly  tabernacle  !  Death  ! 
The  end  of  worldly  sorrowing  and  joy, 
That  breakest  short  the  fantasies  of  youth, 
The  proud  man's  glory,  and  the  lingering  chain 
Of  hopeless  destitution  !     The  dark  gate 
And  entrance  into  that  untrodden  realm, 
Where  we  must  all  hereafter  pass  !     Art  thou 
An  evil  or  a  boon  1  that  some  shrink  back 
With  shuddering  horror  from  the  dreaded  range 
Of  thine  unmeasured  empire,  others  plunge 
Unbidden,  goaded  by  the  sense  of  ill, 
Or  weariness  of  being,  into  the  abyss ! 
And  should  we  call  those  blest  who  journey  on 
Upon  this  motley  theatre,  through  life 
Successful,  unto  the  allotted  term 
Of  threescore  years  and  ten,  even  so  strong, 
That  they  exceed  it  ]  or  those,  who  are  brought  down 
Before  their  prime,  and,  like  the  winged  tribes, 
Ephemeral,  children  of  the  vernal  beam, 
Just  flutter  round  the  sweets  of  life  and  die  1 — 
An  awful  term  thou  art ;  and  still  must  be, 
To  all  who  journey  to  that  bourne,  from  whence 
Return  is  none,  and  from  whose  distant  shore 
No  rumor  has  come  back  of  good  or  ill, 
Save  to  the  faithful,  and  even  they  but  view 
Obscurely  things  unknown  and  unconceived, 
And  judge  not  even,  by  what  sense  the  bliss, 
Which  they  imagine,  shall  hereafter  be 
Enjoy'd  or  apprehended.     And  shall  man 


Unbidden  rush  on  that  mysterious  change, 

Which,  whether  he  believe  or  mock  the  creed 

Of  those  who  trust,  awaits  him,  and  must  bring 

Or  good,  or  evil,  or  annihilate 

The  sense  of  being,  and  involve  him  quite 

In  darkness  upon  which  no  dawn  shall  break ! — 

Fearful  and  dreaded  must  thy  bidding  be 

To  such  as  have  no  light  within,  vouchsafed 

From  the  Most  High,  no  reason  for  their  hope ; 

But  go  from  this  firm  world,  into  the  void 

Where  no  material  body  may  reside, 

By  fleshly  cares  polluted  and  unmeet 

For  spiritual  joy  ;  and  ne'er  have  known, 

Or  knowing,  have  behind  them  cast  the  love      . 

Of  their  Redeemer,  who  thine  awful  bonds, 

Grim  Potentate,  has  broken,  and  made  smooth 

The  deathbed  of  the  just  through  faith  in  Him. 

How  oft,  at  midnight,  have  I  fix'd  my  gaze 

Upon  the  blue  unclouded  firmament, 

With  thousand  spheres  illumined,  each  perchance 

The  powerful  centre  of  revolving  worlds  ! 

Until,  by  strange  excitement  stirr'd,  the  mind 

Has  long'd  for  dissolution,  so  it  might  bring 

Knowledge,  for  which  the  spirit  is  athirst, 

Open  the  darkling  stores  of  hidden  time, 

And  show  the  marvel  of  eternal  things, 

Which,  in  the  bosom  of  immensity, 

Wheel  round  the  God  of  Nature.     Vain  desire ! 

Illusive  aspirations  !  daring  hope  ! 

Worm  that  I  am,  who  told  me  I  should  know 

More  than  is  needful,  or  hereafter  dive 

Into  the  counsel  of  the  God  of  worlds  1 

Or  ever,  in  the  cycle  unconceived 

Of  wonderous  eternity,  arrive 

Beyond  the  narrow  sphere,  by  Him  assign'd 

To  be  my  dwelling  wheresoe'er  1     Enough 

To  work  in  trembling  my  salvation  here, 

Waiting  thy  summons,  stern,  mysterious  Power, 

Who  to  thy  silent  realm  hast  call'd  away 

All  those  whom  nature  twined  around  my  breast 

In  my  fond  infancy,  and  left  me  here 

Deluded  of  their  love !     Where  are  ye  gone, 

And  shall  we  wake  from  the  long  sleep  of  death, 

To  know  each  other,  conscious  of  the  ties 

That  link'd  our  souls  together,  and  draw  down 

The  secret  dew-drop  on  my  cheek,  whene'er 

I  turn  unto  the  past  ]  or  will  the  change 

That  comes  to  all,  renew  the  alter'd  spirit 

To  other  thoughts,  making  the  strife  or  love 

Of  short  mortality  a  shadow  past, 

Equal  illusion  ?     Father,  whose  strong  mind 

Was  my  support,  whose  kindness  as  the  spring 

Which  never  tarries !     Mother,  of  all  forms 

That  smiled  upon  my  budding  thoughts  most  dear! 

Brothers  !  and  thou,  mine  only  sister  !  gone 

To  the  still  grave,  making  the  memory 

Of  all  my  earliest  time,  a  thing  wiped  out, 

Save  from  the  glowing  spot,  which  lives  as  fresh 

In  my  heart's  core,  as  when  we  last  in  joy 

Were  gather'd  round  the  blithe  paternal  board ! 

Where  are  ye?     Must  your  kindred  spirits  sleep 

For  many  a  thousand  years,  till  by  the  trump 

Roused  to  new  being  1     Will  affections  then 

Burn  inwardly,  or  all  our  loves  gone  by 

Seem  but  a  speck  upon  the  roll  of  time, 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


133 


Unworthy  our  regard  ] — This  is  too  hard 
For  mortals  to  unravel,  nor  has  He 
Vouchsafed  a  clue  to  man,  who  bade  us  trust 
To  Him  our  weakness,  and  we  shall  wake  up 
After  his  likeness,  and  be  satisfied. 


AETIUS  THE  UNBELIEVER. 

As  he  who  sails  aloof 
Upon  the  perilous  Atlantic,  vex'd 
By  baffling  gales,  what  time  his  gallant  bark 
Or  on  the  summit  of  some  dark  blue  wave 
Storm-beaten  rides,  or  plunges  into  the  chasm 
From  that  tremendous  altitude,  and  straight 
Lies  in  his  trough  becalrn'd,  as  if  the  grave 
Had  swallow'd  her ;  nathless  undaunted  sets 
His  fix'd  regard  upon  the  starry  vault, 
And  notes  the  hour,  and  frequent  calculates 
Distance  and  bearings,  and  with  skill  corrects 
The  errors  of  his  course.     So  darkling  steer'd 
Aetius,  through  the  shoals  and  fearful  blasts 
Of  his  tempestuous  time,  but  never  found 
That  anchorage,  secure  from  every  change 
Of  fitful  gales,  that  haven,  which  the  just 
Alone  inherit ;  for  the  sons  of  earth, 
Who,  vex'd  with  vain  disquietude,  pursue 
Ambition's  fatuous  light,  through  miry  pools 
That  yawn  for  their  destruction,  stray  foredoom'd 
Amid  delusive  shadows  to  their  end. 
That  certain  hope,  which  shineth  evermore 
A  beacon  to  the  righteous,  over  them 
Its  peaceful  radiance  never  shall  diffuse  ; 
And  bitterness  shall  be  the  bread  they  chew, 
While  striving  to  devour  the  portion  snatch'd 
By  strong  injustice  from  their  fellow  men, 
A  baneful  meal;  and  their  satiety 
Shall  be  a  curse,  more  fatal  than  the  void 
Of  meager  famine,  an  unwholesome  weight, 
That  haply  shall  bring  dreams  beyond  the  grave 
To  the  charged  soul,  and  phantoms  of  the  things 
Which  have  been  on  this  earth,  and  which  shall  be 
Hereafter,  when  the  trumpet  wakes  the  dead. 


WOMAN. 

FATRKST  and  loveliest  of  created  things, 
By  our  great  Author  in  the  image  form'd 
Of  his  celestial  glory,  and  design'd 
To  be  man's  solace  !     Undefiled  by  sin 
How  much  dost  thou  exceed  all  earthly  shapes 
Of  beautiful,  to  charm  the  wistful  eye, 
Bland  to  the  touch,  or  precious  in  the  use  ! 
His  treasure  of  delight,  while  the  fresh  prime 
Adorns  his  forehead  with  the  joy  of  youth, 
His  comfort  in  the  winter  of  the  soul ! 
Chaste  woman  !  thou  art  e'en  a  brighter  gem 
To  him,  who  wears  thee,  than  e'er  shone  display'd 
Upon  the  monarch's  diadem  ;  a  charm 
More  sweet  to  lull  all  sorrow,  than  the  tint 
Of  spring's  young  verdure  in  the  dewy  morn, 
Or  music's  mellow  tones,  which  floating  come 


Over  the  water  like  a  fairy  dream  ! 

Thou  hangest,  as  a  wreath  upon  his  neck, 

More  fragrant  than  the  rose,  in  thy  pure  garb 

Of  blushing  gentleness.     Thou  art  a  joy 

More  sprightly  than  the  lark  in  vernal  suns 

Pouring  his  throat  to  heaven,  or  forest  call 

By  blithesome  Dryads  blown  ;  a  faithful  stay 

In  all  the  world's  mischances  ;  a  helpmeet 

For  man  in  sickness,  and  decay,  and  death. 

Thou  art  more  precious  than  an  only  child 

In  weary  age  begotten,  a  clear  spring 

Amid  the  desert,  an  unhoped-for  land 

To  baffled  mariners,  or  dawn  of  day 

To  who  has  press'd  all  night  a  fever'd  couch. 

Oh,  wherefore,  best  desired  and  most  beloved 

Of  all  heaven's  works,  oh,  wherefore  wert  thou 

made 

To  be  our  curse  as  well  as  blessing !  lured 
From  thy  first  shape  of  innocence  to  become 
A  thing  abased  by  guilt,  and  more  deform'd 
As  thine  original  glory  was  more  bright ! 


FAREWELL. 

READER,  whoe'er  hast  travell'd  to  the  goal 
Through  this  long  chant  unwearied,  if  my  verse, 
Tuned  to  no  trivial  strain,  hast  lent  thee  aught 
Of  pleasure  or  of  profit,  o'er  the  work 
Wrought  by  the  chaste  artificer  of  song 
Bend  kindly,  yielding  such  small  meed  of  praise 
Earn'd  by  high  musing,  as  may  send  his  name 
Not  ill-esteem'd  upon  the  wings  of  Time 
Unto  his  children's  children,  when  the  sod 
Shall  lie  upon  the  hand  that  gave  it  life, 
Calling  the  soul's  unborn  imaginings  [forms 

From  thought's  deep  fountain ;  like  the  glowing 
Of  Eros  and  his  brother,  who  uprose 
From  their  wet  cradle  at  the  wizard's  voice, 
This  mournful,  o'er  his  neck  the  jetty  locks 
With  hyacinthine  ringlets  clustering, 
That  blythe  and  golden  as  the  god  of  day. 

Perchance  I  shall  not  walk  with  thee  again 
Along  the  Muse's  haunt,  and  we  shall  both 
Be  number'd  with  the  countless  things  that  lie 
O'ershadow'd  by  oblivion  ;  hearts  that  beat 
High  in  the  noontide  of  ambitious  hopes, 
And  forms  of  loveliest  symmetry,  that  once 
Delighted  the  beholder,  by  the  hand, 
Which  deals  just  measure  unto  all  that  tread 
This  changeful  world,  o'ertaken  in  their  dream 
Of  summer  joy.     Calm  reason  throws  a  cloud 
O'er  the  enchantment  of  aspiring  thoughts 
Which  whisper  of  a  life  beyond  the  tomb 
Upon  the  lips  of  men,  and  tells  how  vain 
The  shadow  of  such  glory,  nothing  worth 
To  him  who  hath  his  dwelling  with  the  worm. 
But  that  Almighty  will,  which  placed  man  here 
To  labour  in  his  calling,  hath  set  deep 
Within  his  bosom  an  undying  hope, 
An  aspiration  unto  nobler  ends 
Than  he  hath  compass'd  yet;  a  stirring  thirst 
For  praise  beyond  the  term  that  nature's  law 
Has  granted  to  his  brief  mortality, 
M 


134 


WILLIAM    HERBERT. 


This,  ever  of  the  gloomy  monitor 

Regardless,  bids  him  peril  much,  to  win 

The  unsubstantial  fame,  which  unto  him 

Shall  be  as  if  not  being ;  a  sweet  strain 

Of  soul-enrapturing  music  to  the  deaf, 

A  scene  of  beauty  and  of  light  to  eyes 

That  lie  in  darkness,  and  by  slumber  seal'd 

Without  the  sense  of  vision.     Strange,  forsooth, 

Appear  the  workings  of  the  mind  of  man, 

Which  goad  him  to  his  loss.     The  promised  boon 

Of  that  stupendous  glory,  which  shall  be 

Hereafter,  and  survive  the  wreck  of  worlds 

Unto  the  end  of  Time,  wants  substance  now 

To  wrestle  with  his  sense  of  present  good  ; 

That  which  is  lighter  than  a  transient  gleam 

Of  sunshine  or  the  shadow  of  a  shade 

Reflected  from  a  mirror,  and,  if  gain'd, 

Can  never  be  by  any  sense  of  his 

Enjoy'd  or  apprehended,  the  vain  wish 

To  float  upon  the  memory  of  men 

After  his  term  of  being  oft  becomes 

A  master  passion,  and  for  that  one  aim 

He  barters  all,  that  his  Creator  gave 

Of  joy  or  solace  in  the  vale  of  life, 

And  that  inheritance  of  perfect  bliss 

Which  might  be  his  for  ever.     Then  happy  they 

Who  in  the  airy  building  of  a  name, 

Have  travell'd  through  the  guiltless  ways  of  peace 

Innocuous,  and  held  the  mind's  calm  eye 

Fix'd  on  a  better  star  than  those  vague  fires, 

Which,  fatuous,  tole  man  to  the  abyss.    Time  was, 

Nor  will  return,  when  poesy  might  rear 

A  more  perennial  monument  than  brass, 

Towering  above  the  age-worn  edifice, 

Where  loath'd  corruption  saith  unto  the  worm, 

"  Thou  art  my  sister."     The  famed  capitol 

No  longer  sees  the  silent  virgin  climb 

Its  marble  steps,  nor  does  the  pomp  profane 

Of  sacrificial  pontiffs  crowd  its  ways ; 

Yet  still  the  chaplet  blooms,  wherewith  the  muse 

Inwreathed  the  forehead  of  VenusiutrTs  bard 

Fragrant  and  fresh,  while  ages  fling  their  dust 

Upon  the  crumbling  domes,  with  which  he  claim'd 

Coeval  glory.     But  the  boast  that  told 

Of  sepulchres  by  magic  verse  uppiled, 

Which  neither  storms  nor  all  consuming  Time 

Should  bring  to  nothingness,  would  perish  now 

Even  in  the  utterance.     I  have  yet  beheld 

But  half  an  age,  yet  in  that  petty  space 

Such  giant  forms  of  havoc  and  of  change 

Have  glided  o'er  the  earth,  that  the  mazed  thought 

Dwells  little  on  the  past,  but  gazing  forth, 

Like  the  Ebudan  seer,  with  ravishment 

Strains  after  what  shall  be.     The  ear  is  cloy'd 

Unto  satiety  with  honied  strains 

That  daily  from  the  fount  of  Helicon 

Flow  murmuring ;  and  that  which  is  to-day 


Inshrined  upon  the  lip  of  praise,  shall  be 

To-morrow  a  tale  told,  a  shadow  pass'd 

Into  those  regions  where  oblivion  throws 

Over  the  bright  creations  of  the  mind 

A  darkness  as  of  death.     Scared  learning  flies 

An  age,  which  bubbling  with  unnumber'd  tongues 

In  quest  of  some  new  wonder  hurries  on, 

And  hath  no  retrospect.     Enough  for  me, 

That  this  my  tuneful  labour,  short  howe'er 

Its  term  of  glory,  hath  my  solace  been 

Through  many  a  wintry  hour,  when  icy  chains 

Bound  the  froze  champaign ;  a  sweet  anodyne 

To  inward  cares,  lulling  the  tremulous  heart 

That  throbs  with  high  aspirings,  and  would  fain 

Live  unreproach'd  upon  the  rolls  of  fame, 

Mindful  of  its  Creator,  who  requires 

From  each  with  usury  the  gifts  He  gave, 

And  stirs  by  inborn  thirst  of  good  report 

Man  to  his  noblest  uses.     To  have  walk'd 

No  servile  follower,  nor  vainly  trick'd 

With  meretricious  gauds  of  modern  song, 

Beneath  Aovian  umbrage  never  sere, 

Where  Melesigenes  and  Maro  sang, 

Where  British  Milton  gave  his  country's  lyre 

A  voice  from  ancient  days,  hath  been  to  me 

A  charm  illusive,  a  refreshing  toil 

Year  after  year.     My  little  bark,  o'er  which 

Long  fashioning  thy  symmetry  I  hung, 

Now  launch'd  upon  the  ocean  wide  of  Time, 

Whose  winds  are  evil  tongues,  and  passions  roused 

Amidst  the  warring  multitude  its  storms, 

Sore  shall  I  miss  thee !  like  the  child,  first  sent 

From  the  safe  home,  where  fond  parental  cares 

Watch'd  o'er  his  growing  energies.     Go  forth  . 

Unto  thy  destinies,  and  fare  unharm'd 

Adown  the  current,  which  may  waft  thee  soon 

To  that  Lethean  pool,  where  earthly  toils 

Sink  unregarded  in  forgetfulness  ! 


WASHINGTON. 

A  BETTER  prize 

There  is  for  man,  a  glory  of  this  world 
Well  worth  the  labour  of  the  blessed,  won 
By  arduous  deeds  of  righteousness,  that  bring 
Solace,  or  wisdom,  or  the  deathless  boon 
Of  holy  freedom  to  his  fellow  men, 
And  praise  to  the  Almighty.    Such  a  wreath 
Encircled  late  the  patriotic  brows 
Of  him,  who,  greater  than  the  kings  of  earth, 
To  young  Atlantis  in  an  upright  cause 
Gave  strength  and  liberty,  and  laid  the  stone 
Whereon  shall  rise,  if  so  Jehovah  will, 
An  empire  mightier  than  the  vast  domain 
Sway'd  once  by  vicious  Caesars. 


SIR    HUMPHRY    DAVY. 


SINCE  BACON,  no  man  has  exhibited  so  won- 
derful a  combination  of  the  highest  powers  of 
science  with  the  faculties  of  the  poet,  as  Sir 
HUMPHRY  DAVY.  COLERIDGE  said  to  Mr. 
POOLE,  "  Had  not  DAVY  been  the  first  chemist, 
he  probably  would  have  been  the  first  poet  of 
his  age  ;"  and  the  "  Consolations  in  Travel," 
and  the  notes  and  poems  recently  given  to  the 
world  by  his  brother,  Dr.  JOHN  DAVY,  are  suf- 
ficient to  prove  that  that  opinion  was  not  ex- 
travagant. "Who  that  has  read  his  sublime 
quatrains  on  the  doctrine  of  SPINOZA,"  says 
LOCKHART,  the  soundest  critic  of  our  times, 
"  can  doubt  that  he  might  have  united,  if  he 
had  pleased,  in  some  great  didactic  poem,  the 
vigorous  ratiocination  of  DRYDEnrand  the  moral 
majesty  of  WORDSWORTH  V  Even  taking  his 
effusions  as  we  find  them,  it  would  not  be  dif- 
ficult to  vindicate  their  superiority  to  a  vast 
deal  of  the  most  popular  poetry  of  the  age. 

The  life  and  scientific  career  of  Sir  HUM- 
PHRY are  so  fully  before  the  world  in  the 
biographies  of  Dr.  PARIS  and  Dr.  DAVY,  that 
it  is  unnecessary  here  to  do  more  than  refer  to 
a  few  dates.  He  was  born  at  Penzance,  on 
the  shore  of  Mount's  Bay,  in  Cornwall,  the 
17th  December,  1778.  His  faculties  were  de- 
veloped very  early  :  he  made  rhymes  and  dis- 
played a  fondness  for  drawing  when  scarcely 
five  years  old.  In  1798,  Dr.  BEDDOES  con- 
ferred upon  him  the  situation  of  superintendent 
of  the  Pneumatic  Institution  at  Clifton,  and 
he  accordingly  removed  to  that  place.  In 
1802,  he  was  appointed  professor  of  chemistry 
in  the  Royal  Institution,  London.  From  this 
post  he  retired  upon  his  marriage,  in  1812,  with 
Mrs.  APREECE.  In  the  following  year  he  went 
abroad,  and  remained  there  till  1815.  In  1818, 
he  made  a  second  visit  to  the  continent.  Two 


years  after,  on  the  death  of  Sir  JOSEPH  BANKS, 
he  was  elected  President  of  the  Royal  Society. 
Towards  the  close  of  1826,  he  experienced  an 
attack  of  paralysis  ;  but  so  far  recovered  as  to 
be  able  to  undertake  a  journey  to  the  conti- 
nent early  in  the  next  year.  He  died  at  Ge- 
neva, 29th  May,  1829.  His  remains  were 
deposited  in  the  burying-ground  of  that  city. 

The  poetry  now  printed  is  a  selection  from 
the  pieces  published  by  his  brother.  It  was 
written  at  various  periods.  Some  of  his  poems 
appeared  in  1799,  in  the  Annual  Anthology,  an 
interesting  miscellany,  of  which  two  of  the 
volumes  were  edited  by  SOUTHEY,  and  the 
third  by  TOBIN.  One  of  these  poems,  "  The 
Tempest,"  is  printed  below ;  it  bears  the  date 
1796.  The  poem  alluded  to  by  Mr.  LOCK- 
HART,  is  that  entitled  "  Written  after  Recovery 
from  a  dangerous  Illness." 

There  is  a  remark  in  one  of  Sir  HUMPHRY 
DAVY'S  memorandum-books,  exhibiting  so  sin- 
gular a  coincidence,  in  feeling  and  perception, 
with  one  of  Mr.  WORDSWORTH'S  admired  pas- 
sages, that  it  will  probably  interest  the  reader 
to  see  it  extracted. — "  To-day,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  have  had  a  distinct  sympa- 
thy with  nature.  I  was  lying  on  the  top  of  a 
rock  to  leeward;  the  wind  was  high,  and 
every  thing  in  motion ;  the  branches  of  an 
oak  tree  were  waving  and  murmuring  to  the 
breeze;  yellow  clouds,  deepened  by  gray  at 
the  base,  were  rapidly  floating  over  the  west- 
ern hills ;  the  whole  sky  was  in  motion ;  the 
yellow  stream  below  was  agitated  by  the 
breeze ;  every  thing  was  alive,  and  myself  part 
of  the  series  of  visible  impressions ;  I  should 
have  felt  pain  in  tearing  a  leaf  from  one  of  the 
trees."  The  poem  entitled  ««  Nutting"  will 
occur  to  every  reader  of  WORDSWORTH. 


THE  TEMPEST. 

THE  tempest  has  darken'd  the  face  of  the  skies, 
The  winds  whistle  wildly  across  the  waste  plain, 

The  fiends  of  the  whirlwind  terrific  arise,     [main. 
And  mingle  the  clouds  with  the  white  foaming 

All  dark  is  the  night  and  all  gloomy  the  shore, 
Save  when  the  red  lightnings  the  ether  divide ; 

Then  follows  the  thunder  with  loud  sounding  roar, 
And  echoes  in  concert  the  billowy  tide. 


But  tho'  now  all  is  murky  and  shaded  with  gloom, 
Hope,  the  soother,  soft  whispers  the  tempest  shall 

cease  : 

Then  nature  again  in  her  beauty  shall  bloom, 
And  enamour'd  embrace  the  fair,  sweet-smiling 
peace. 

For  the  bright  blushing  morning,  all  rosy  with  light, 
Shall  convey  on  her  wings  the  creator  of  day ; 

He  shall  drive  all  the  tempest  arid  terrors  of  night, 
And  nature,  enliven'd,  again  shall  be  gay. 

135 


136 


SIR    HUMPHRY    DAVY. 


Then  the  warblers  of  spring  shall  attune  the  soft  lay, 
And  again  the  bright  floweret  shall  blush  in  the 

vale ; 

On  the  breast  of  the  ocean  the  zephyr  shall  play, 
And  the  sunbeam  shall  sleep  on  the  hill  and  the 
dale. 

If  the  tempest  of  nature  so  soon  sink  to  rest ; 

If  her  once  faded  beauties  so  soon  glow  again ; 
Shall  man  be  for  ever  by  tempest  oppress'd, — 

By  the  tempest  of  passion,  of  sorrow,  and  pain1? 

Ah,  no  !  for  his  passions  and  sorrows  shall  cease, 
When  the  troublesome  fever  of  life  shall  be  o'er: 

In  the  night  of  the  grave  he  shall  slumber  in  peace, 
And  passion  and  sorrow  shall  vex  him  no  more. 

And  shall  not  this  night,  and  its  long  dismal  gloom, 
Like  the  night  of  the  tempest  again  pass  away  1 

Yes !  the  dust  of  the  earth  in  bright  beauty  shall 

bloom, 
And  rise  to  the  morning  of  heavenly  day. 


FONTAINEBLEAU. 

THE  mists  disperse, — and  where  a  sullen  cloud 
Hung  on  the  mountain's  verge,  the  sun  bursts  forth 
In  all  its  majesty  of  purple  light. 
It  is  a  winter's  evening,  and  the  year 
Is  fast  departing ;  yet  the  hues  of  heaven 
Are  bright  as  in  the  summer's  warmest  month. 
It  is  the  season  of  the  sleep  of  things  ; 
But  nature  in  her  sleep  is  lovely  still ! 
The  trees  display  no  green,  no  forms  of  life ; 
And  yet  a  magic  foliage  clothes  them  round, — 
And  purest  crystals  of  pellucid  ice, 
All  purple  in  the  sunset.     Midst  the  wood 
Fantastically  rise  the  towering  cliffs, 
That  in  another  season  had  been  white, 
But  now,  contrasted  with  the  brilliant  ice, 
Shine  in  aerial  tints  of  purest  blue  ! 
The  varied  outline  has  a  thousand  charms ; 
Here  rises  high  a  venerable  wood, 
Where  oaks  are  seen  with  massy  ice  girt  round, 
And  birches  pendent  with  their  glittering  arms, 
And  graceful  beeches  clinging  to  the  soil; 
There,  massy  forms  exist  of  rocks  alone, — 
Rising  as  if  the  work  of  human  art, 
The  pride  of  some  great  Paladin  of  old, 
In  awful  ruins.     Nearer  I  behold 
The  palace  of  a  race  of  mighty  kings  ; 
But  now  another  tenants.     On  these  walls, 
Where  erst  the  silver  lily  spread  her  leaves — 
The  graceful  symbol  of  a  brilliant  court — 
The  golden  eagle  shines,  the  bird  of  prey, — 
Emblem  of  rapine  and  of  lawless  power: 
Such  is  the  fitful  change  of  human  things : 
An  empire  rises,  like  a  cloud  in  heaven, 
Red  in  the  morning  sun,  spreading  its  tints 
Of  golden  hue  along  the  feverish  sky, 
And  filling  the  horizon  ; — soon  its  tints 
Are  darken'd,  and  it  brings  the  thunder-storm, — 
Lightning,  and  hail,  and  desolation  comes ; 
But  in  destroying  it  dissolves,  and  falls 
Never  to  rise  ! 


WRITTEN  AFTER  RECOVERY  FROM 
A  DANGEROUS  ILLNESS. 

Lo  !  o'er  the  earth  the  kindling  spirits  pour 
The  flames  of  life  that  bounteous  nature  gives ; 

The  limpid  dew  becomes  the  rosy  flower, 

The  insensate  dust  awakes,  and  moves,  and  lives. 

All  speaks  of  change  :  the  renovated  forms 
Of  long-forgotten  things  arise  again  ; 

The  light  of  suns,  the  breath  of  angry  storms, 
The  everlasting  motions  of  the  main — 

These  are  but  engines  of  the  Eternal  will, 
The  One  Intelligence,  whose  potent  sway 

Has  ever  acted,  and  is  acting  still, 

Whilst  stars,  and  worlds,  and  systems  all  obey ; 

Without  whose  power,  the  whole  of  mortal  things 
Were  dull,  inert,  an  unharmonious  band, 

Silent  as  are  the  harp's  untuned  strings 
Without  the  touches  of  the  poet's  hand 

A  sacred  spark  created  by  His  breath, 

The  immortal  mind  of  man  His  image  bears ; 

A  spirit  living  'midst  the  forms  of  death, 
Oppress'd  but  not  subdued  by  mortal  cares  ; 

A  germ,  preparing  in  the  winter's  frost 

To  rise,  and  bud,  and  blossom  in  the  spring ; 

An  unfledsred  eagle  by  the  tempest  toss'd, 
Unconscious  of  his  future  strength  of  wing  ; 

The  child  of  trial,  to  mortality 

And  all  its  changeful  influences  given  ; 

On  the  green  earth  decreed  to  move  and  die, 
And  yet  by  such  a  fate  prepared  for  heaven. 

Soon  as  it  breathes,  to  feel  the  mother's  form 
Of  orbed  beauty  through  its  organs  thrill, 

To  press  the  limbs  of  life  with  rapture  warm, 
And  drink  instinctive  of  a  living  rill ; 

To  view  the  skies  with  morning  radiance  bright, 
Majestic  mingling  with  the  ocean  blue, 

Or  bounded  by  green  hills,  or  mountains  white, 
Or  peopled  plains  of  rich  and  varied  hue  ; 

The  nobler  charms  astonish'd  to  behold, 
Of  living  loveliness, — to  see  it  move, 

Cast  in  expression's  rich  and  varied  mould, 
Awakening  sympathy,  compelling  love  ; 

The  heavenly  balm  of  mutual  hope  to  taste, 
Soother  of  life,  affection's  bliss  to  share  ; 

Sweet  as  the  stream  amidst  the  desert  waste, 
As  the  first  blush  of  arctic  daylight  fair  ; 

To  mingle  with  its  kindred,  to  descry 

The  path  of  power ;  in  public  life  to  shine  ; 

To  gain  the  voice  of  popularity, 
The  idol  of  to-day,  the  man  divine  ; 

To  govern  others  by  an  influence  strong      [main, 
As  that  high  law  which  moves  the  murmuring 

Raising  and  carrying  all  its  waves  along, 

Beneath  the  full-orb'd  moon's  meridian  reign ; 

To  scan  how  transient  is  the  breath  of  praise, 
A  winter's  zephyr  trembling  on  the  snow, 

Chill'd  as  it  moves ;  or,  as  the  northern  rays, 
First  fading  in  the  centre,  whence  they  flow. 


SIR    HUMPHRY    DAVY. 


137 


To  live  in  forests  mingled  with  the  whole 
Of  natural  forms,  whose  generations  rise, 

In  lovely  change,  in  happy  order  roll, 

On  land,  in  ocean,  in  the  glittering  skies ; 

Their  harmony  to  trace ;  the  Eternal  cause 
To  know  in  love,  in  reverence  to  adore ; 

To  bend  beneath  the  inevitable  laws, 

Sinking  in  death,  its  human  strength  no  more  ! 

Then,  as  awakening  from  a  dream  of  pain, 
With  joy  its  mortal  feelings  to  resign  ; 

Yet  all  its  living  essence  to  retain, 

The  undying  energy  of  strength  divine  ! 

To  quit  the  burdens  of  its  earthly  days, 

To  give  to  nature  all  her  borrow'd  powers, — 

Ethereal  fire  to  feed  the  solar  rays, 

Ethereal  dew  to  glad  the  earth  with  showers. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

COMPOSED  AT   WESTHILL,  IN  THE  GREAT  STORM,   1824.* 

GOXE  is  the  bard,  who,  like  a  powerful  spirit, 
A  beautiful  and  fallen  child  of  light, 
Of  fiery  seraph  the  aspiring  peer, 
Seem  fitted  by  his  nature  to  inherit 
A  wilder  state  than  in  the  genial  strife 
Of  mighty  elements  is  given  our  sphere, 
Fix'd  in  a  stated  round  its  course  to  run, 
A  chained  slave,  around  the  master  sun  ! 

Of  some  great  comet  he  might  well  have  been 
The  habitant,  that  through  the  mighty  space 
Of  kindling  ether  rolls  ;  now  visiting 
Our  glorious  sun,  by  wondering  myriads  seen 
Of  planetary  beings  ;  then  in  race 
Vying  with  light  in  swiftness,  like  a  king 
Of  void  and  chaos,  rising  up  on  high 
Above  the  stars  in  awful  majesty. 

Now  passing  near  those  high  and  hless'd  abodes, 
Where  beings  of  a  nobler  nature  move 
In  fields  of  purest  light,  where  brightest  rays 
Of  glory  shine — in  power  allied  to  gods, 
Whose  minds  in  hope  and  in  fruition  prove 
That  unconsuming  and  ethereal  blaze 
Flowing  from,  returning  to,  eternal  love. 

And  such  may  be  his  fate !    And  if  to  bring 
His  memory  bark,  an  earthly  type  were  given, 
And  T  possoss'd  the  artist's  powerful  hand, 
A  genius  with  an  eagle's  powerful  wing 
Should  preps  the  earth  recumbent,  looking  on  heaven 
With  wistful  eye ;  a  broken  lamp  should  stand 
Beside  him,  on  the  ground  its  naphtha  flowing 
In  the  bright  flame,  o'er  earthly  ashes  glowing. 


*  It  was  durincr  a  storm  that  he  expired.  Mr.  Gordon, 
in  his  admirable  History  of  the  Greek  Revolution,  re- 
cords it :  "  At  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  Easter 
Monday,  (April  19.)  at  the  instant  of  an  awful  thunder- 
storm, Byron  expired." 

18 


MONT  BLANC. 

WITH  joy  I  view  thee,  bathed  in  purple  light, 
Whilst  all  around  is  dark  ;  with  joy  I  see 
Thee  rising  from  thy  sea  of  pitchy  clouds 
Into  the  middle  heaven, — 
As  if  a  temple  to  the  Eternal  raised 
By  all  the  earth,  framed  of  the  pillar'd  rock, 
And  canopied  with  everlasting  snow  ! — 
That  lovely  river,  rolling  at  my  feet 
Its  bright  green  waves,  and  winding  'midst  the  rocks, 
Brown  in  their  winter's  foliage,  gain'd  from  thee 
Its  flood  of  waters  ;  through  a  devious  course, 
Though  it  has  laved  the  fertile  plains,  and  wash'd 
The  cities'  walls,  and  mingled  with  the  streams 
Of  lowland  origin,  yet  still  preserves 
Its  native  character  of  mountain  strength, — 
Its  colour,  and  its  motion.     Such  are  those 
Amongst  the  generations  of  mankind        [heaven, 
To  whom  the  stream  of  thought  descends  from 
With  all  the  force  of  reason  and  the  power 
Of  sacred  genius.     Through  the  world  they  pass 
Still  uncorrupted,  and  on  what  they  take 
From  social  life  bestow  a  character 
Of  dignity.     Greater  they  become, 
But  never  lose  their  native  purity. 


THE  SYBIL'S  TEMPLE.* 

THY  faith.  O  Roman  !   was  a  natural  faith, 
Well  suited  to  an  age  in  which  the  light 
Ineffable  gleam'd  through  obscuring  clouds 
Of  objects  sensible, — not  yet  revealed 
In  noontide  brightness  on  the  Syrian  mount. 
For  thee,  the  Eternal  Majesty  of  heaven 
In  all  things  lived  and  moved, — and  to  its  power 
And  attributes  poetic  fancy  gave 
The  forms  of  human  beauty,  strength,  and  grace. 
The  Naiad  murmur'd  in  the  silver  stream, 
The  Dryad  whisper'd  in  the  nodding  wood, 
(Her  voice  the  music  of  the  zephyr's  breath  ;) 
On  the  blue  wave  the  sportive  Nereid  moved, 
Or  blew  her  conch  amidst  the  echoing  rocks. 
I  wonder  not,  that,  moved  by  such  a  faith, 
Thou  raisedst  the  Sybil's  temple  in  this  vale, 
For  such  a  scene  was  suited  well  to  raise 
The  mind  to  high  devotion, — to  create    > 
Those  thoughts  indefinite  which  seem  above 
Our  sense  and  reason,  and  the  hallowed  dream 
Prophetic. — In  the  sympathy  sublime, 
With  natural  forms  and  sounds,  the  mind  forgets 
Its  present  being, — images  arise 
Which  seem  not  earthly. — midst  the  awful  rock? 
And  caverns  bursting  with  the  living  stream, — 
In  force  descending  from  the  precipice, — 
Sparkling  in  sunshine,  nurturing  with  dews 
A  thousand  odorous  plants  and  fragrant  flowers. 
In  the  sweet  music  of  the  vernal  woods, 
From  winged  minstrels,  and  the  louder  sounds 
Of  mountain  storms,  and  thundering  cataracts, 
The  voice  of  inspiration  well  might  come  ! 

*  Tivoli. 


138 


SIR    HUMPHRY    DAVY. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

IT  is  alone  in  solitude  we  feel 
And  know  what  powers  belong  to  us. 
By  sympathy  excited,  and  constraint 
By  tedious  ceremony  in  the  world, 
Many  whom  we  are  fit  to  lead  we  follow ; 
And  fools,  and  confident  men,  and  those  who  think 
Themselves  all  knowing,  from  the  littleness 
Of  their  own  talents  and  the  sphere  they  move  in, 
Which  is  most  little, — these  do  mle  the  world ; 
Even  like  the  poet's  dream  of  elder  time 
The  fabled  Titans  imaged  to  aspire 
Unto  the  infinitely  distant  heaven, 
Because  they  raised  a  pile  of  common  stones, 
And  higher  stood  than  those  around  them. 

The  great  is  ever 

Obscure,  indefinite  ;  and  knowledge  still, 
The  highest,  the  most  distant,  most  sublime, 
Is  like  the  stars  composed  of  luminous  points, 
But  without  visible  image,  or  known  distance. 
E'en  with  respect  to  human  things  and  forms, 
We  estimate  and  know  them  but  in  solitude. 
'the  eye  of  the  worldly  man  is  insect-like, 
Fit  only  for  the  near  and  single  objects  ; 
The  true  philosopher  in  distance  sees  them, 
And  scans  their  forms,  their  bearings,  and  relations. 
To  view  a  lovely  landscape  in  its  whole, 
We  do  not  fix  upon  one  cave  or  rock, 
Or  woody  hill,  out  of  the  mighty  range 
Of  the  wide  scenery, — we  rather  mount 
A  lofty  knoll  to  mark  the  varied  whole, — 
The  waters  blue,  the  mountains  gray  and  dim, 
The  shaggy  hills  and  the  embattled  cliffs, 
With  their  mysterious  glens,  awakening 
Imagination  wild, — interminable  ! 


THE  EAGLES. 

THE  mighty  birds  still  upward  rose, 
In  slow  but  constant  and  most  steady  flight, 
The  young  ones  following ;  and  they  would  pause, 
As  if  to  teach  them  how  to  bear  the  light, 
And  keep  the  solar  glory  full  in  sight. 
So  went  they  on  till,  from  excess  of  pain, 
I  could  no  longer  bear  the  scorching  rays; 
And  when  I  looked  again,  they  were  not  seen, 
Lost  in  the  brightness  of  the  solar  blaze. 
Their  memory  left  a  type,  and  a  desire  : 
So  should  I  wish  towards  the  light  to  rise, 
Instructing  younger  spirits  to  aspire 
Where  I  could  never  reach  amidst  the  skies, 
And  joy  below  to  see  them  lifted  higher, 
Seeking  the  light  of  purest  glory's  prize. 
So  would  I  look  on  splendour's  brightest  day 
With  an  undazzled  eye,  and  steadily 
Soar  upwards  full  in  the  immortal  ray, 
Through  the  blue  depths  of  the  unbounded  sky, 
Portraying  wisdom's  boundless  purity. 
Before  me  still  a  lingering  ray  appears, 
But  broken  and  prismatic,  seen  through  tears. 
The  light  of  joy  and  immortality. 


THE  FIRE-FLIES. 

ARATX  that  lovely  lamp  from  half  its  orb 
Sends  forth  a  mellow  lustre,  that  pervades 
The  eastern  sky,  and  meets  the  rosy  light 
Of  the  last  sunbeams  dying  in  the  west. 
The  mountains  all  above  are  clear  and  bright, 
Their  giant  forms  distinctly  visible, 
Crested  with  shaggy  chestnuts,  or  erect, 
Bearing  the  helmed  pine,  or  raising  high 
Their  marble  columns  crown'd  with  grassy  slopes. 
From  rock  to  rock  the  foaming  Lima  pours 
Full  from  the  thunder-storm,  rapid,  and  strong, 
And  turbid.     Hush'd  is  the  air  in  silence  ; 
The  smoke  moves  upwards,  and  its  curling  waves 
Stand  like  a  tree  above.     E'en  in  my  heart, 
By  sickness  weaken'd  and  by  sorrow  chill'd, 
The  balm  of  calmness  seems  to  penetrate, — 
Mild,  soothing,  genial  in  its  influence. 
Again  I  feel  a  freshness,  and  a  power, 
As  in  my  youthful  days,  and  hopes  and  thoughts 
Heroical  and  high  !     The  wasted  frame 
Soon  in  corporeal  strength  recruits  itself, 
And  wounds  the  deepest  heal ;  so  in  the  mind, 
The  dearth  of  objects  and  the  loss  of  hope 
Are  in  the  end  succeeded  by  some  births 
Of  new  creative  faculties  and  powers, 
Brought  forth  with  pain,  but,  like  a  vigorous  child, 
Repaying  by  its  beauty  for  the  pang. 


LIFE. 

OUR  life  is  like  a  cloudy  sky,  midst  mountains, 
When  in  the  blast  the  watery  vapours  float. 
Now  gleams  of  light  pass  o'er  the  lovely  hills, 
And  make  the  purple  heath  and  russet  bracken 
Seem  lovelier,  and  the  grass  of  brighter  green ; 
And  now  a  giant  shadow  hides  them  all. 
And  thus  it  is,  that  in  all  earthly  distance 
On  which  the  sight  can  fix,  still  fear  and  hope, 
(jloom  and  alternate  sunshine,  each  succeeds. 
So  of  another  and  an  unknown  land 
We  see  the  radiance  of  the  clbuds  reflected, 
Which  is  the  future  life  beyond  the  grave  ! 


THOUGHT. 

BE  this  our  trust,  that  ages  (filled  with  light 
More  glorious  far  than  those  faint  beams  which  shine 
In  this  our  feeble  twilight)  yet  to  come 
Shall  see  distinctly  what  we  now  but  hope, — 
The  world  immutable  in  which  alone 
Wisdom  is  found,  the  light  and  life  of  things, 
The  breath  divine,  creating  power  divine, 
The  One  of  which  the  human  intellect 
Is  but  a  type,  as  feeble  as  that  image 
Of  the  bright  sun  seen  on  the  bursting  wave — 
Bright,  but  without  distinctness  ;  yet  in  passing 
Showing  its  glorious  and  eternal  source. 


JOHN    HERMAN    MERIVALE. 


JOHN  HERMAN  MERIVALE  was  born  in  Exe- 
ter, on  the  fifth  of  August,  1779.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Cambridge,  studied  law,  was  a  suc- 
cessful barrister,  and  in  1826  was  appointed  a 
Commissioner  in  Bankruptcy.  His  "  Poems, 
Original  and  Translated,"  were  published  by 
Pickering,  in  three  volumes,  in  March,  1844. 
The  third  volume  comprises  translations  from 
SCHILLER,  and  appeared  simultaneously  with 
Sir  EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER'S  "Songs  and 
Ballads  of  Schiller,"  to  which  it  has  been 
generally  preferred  by  the  critics.  His  versions 

ODE  ON  THE  DELIVERANCE  OF  EU- 
ROPE, ^1814. 

THE  hour  of  blood  is  past ; 

Blown  the  last  trumpet's  blast ; 
Peal'd  the  last  thunders  of  the  embattled  line  : 

From  hostile  shore  to  shore 

The  bale-fires  blaze  no  more  ; 
But  friendly  beacons  o'er  the  billows  shine, 

To  light,  as  to  their  common  home, 
The  barks  of  every  port  that  cut  the  salt  sea  foam. 

"  Peace  to  the  nations  !" — Peace  ! 

Oh  sound  of  glad  release 
To  millions  in  forgotten  bondage  lying  ; 

In  joyless  exile  thrown 

On  shores  remote,  unknown, 
Where  hope  herself,  if  just  sustain'd  from  dyi»g, 

Yet  sheds  so  dim  and  pale  a  light, 
As  makes  creation  pall  upon  the  sickening  sight. 

"  Peace  !    Peace  the  world  around  !" 

Oh  strange,  yet  welcome  sound 
To  myriads  more  that  ne'er  beheld  her  face ; 

And,  if  a  doubtful  fame 

Yet  handed  down  her  name 
In  faded  memory  of  an  elder  race, 

It  seem'd  some  visionary  form, 
Some  Ariel,  fancy-bred,  to  soothe  the  mimic  storm. 

Now  the  time-honour'd  few, 
Her  earlier  reign  that  knew, 
May  turn  their  eyes  back  o'er  that  dreamy  flood, 
And  think  again  they  stand 
On  the  remember'd  land, 
Ere  yet  the  sun  had  risen  in  clouds  of  blood, 

Ere  launch'd  the  chance-directed  bark 
On  that  vast  world  of  ocean,  measureless  and  dark. 

And  is  it  all  a  dream  1 
And  did  these  things  but  seem — 
The  vain  delusions  of  a  troubled  sight  ] 
Or,  if  indeed  they  were, 
For  what  did  nature  bear 


from  the  Greek,  Latin,  Italian,  and  several 
other  languages,  are  all  remarkable  for  a  strict 
fidelity,  but  his  diction  is  frequently  difficult 
and  inharmonious.  One  of  Mr.  MERIVALE'S 
earliest  works  was  "The  Minstrel,  or  the 
Progress  of  Genius,"  in  continuation  of  Dr. 
BEATTIE,  whose  style  he  successfully  imitated. 
The  most  perfect  of  his  longer  poems  is  "  Or- 
lando in  Roncesvalles,"  a  story  of  the  Italian 
school,  suggested  by  the  "  Morgante  Mag- 
giore"  of  LUIGI  PULCI.  He  died  in  London, 
on  the  fifth  of  April,  1844. 

The  long  dark  horrors  of  that  fearful  night  1 

Only  to  breathe  and  be  once  more       [shore  ? 
Even  as  she  was  and  breathed  upon  that  former 

O'er  this  wild  waste  of  time, 

This  sea  of  blood  and  crime, 
Doth  godlike  virtue  rear  her  awful  form, 

Only  to  cheat  the  sight 

With  wandering,  barren  light — 
The  meteor,  not  the  watch-fire,  of  the  storm  ? 

The  warrior's  deed,  the  poet's  strain,    [vain  1 
The  statesman's  anxious  toil,  the  patriot's  sufferings, 

For  this  did  Louis  lay, 
In  Gallia's  sinful  day, 
On  the  red  altar  his  anointed  head  1 
For  this  did  Nelson  pour, 
In  Britain's  glorious  hour, 
More  precious  blood  than  Britain  e'er  had  shed  1 

And  did  their  winged  thoughts  aspire, 
Even  in  the  parting  soul's  prophetic  trance,  no 
higher  ? 

Ye  tenants  of  the  grave, 

Whom  unseen  wisdom  gave 
To  watch  the  shapeless  mist  o'er  earth  extending, 

Yet  will'd  to  snatch  away 

Before  the  appointed  day 
Of  light  renew'd,  and  clouds  and  darkness  ending, 

Oh  might  ye  now  permitted  rise,  [eyes  ; 

Cast  o'er  this  wondrous  scene  your  unobstructed 

And  say,  0  thou,  whose  might, 

Bulwark  of  England's  right, 
Stood  forth,  the  might  of  Chatham's  lordly  son ; 

Thou  «  on  whose  burning  tongue 

Truth,  peace,  and  freedom  hung," 
When  freedom's  ebbing  sand  almost  had  run ; 

To  the  deliver'd  world  declare, 
That  each  hath  seen  fulfill'd  his  latest,earliest  prayer. 


Rejoice,  kings  of  the  earth  ! 
But  with  a  temperate  mirth  ; 


139 


140 


JOHN    HERMAN    MERIVALE. 


The  trophies  ye  have  won,  the  wreaths  ye  wear — 

Power  with  his  red  right  hand, 

And  empire's  despot  brand, 
Had  ne'er  achieved  these  proud  rewards  ye  bear; 

But,  in  one  general  cause  combined,     [mind. 
The  people's  vigorous  arm,  the  monarch's  constant 

Yet  that  untired  by  toil, 

Unsway'd  by  lust  of  spoil, 
Unmoved  by  fear,  or  soft  desire  of  rest, 

Ye  kept  your  onward  course 

With  unremitted  force, 
And  to  the  distant  goal  united  press'd ; 

The  soldier's  bed,  the  soldier's  fare, 
His  dangers,  wants,  and  toils,  alike  resolved  to  share. 

And  more — that  when,  at  length, 
Exulting  in  your  strength, 
In  tyranny  o'erthrown,  and  victory  won, 
Before  you  lowly  laid, 
Your  dancing  eyes  survey'd 
The  prostrate  form  of  humbled  Babylon, 

Ye  cried,  "  Enough  !" — and  at  the  word 
Vengeance    put    out   her   torch,   and    slaughter 
sheath'd  his  sword — 

Princes,  be  this  your  praise  ! 

And  ne'er  in  after  days 
Let  faction  rude  that  spotless  praise  profane, 

Or  dare  with  license  bold 

The  impious  falsehood  hold, 
ThatEurupe's  genuine  kings  have  ceased  to  reisrn, 

And  that  a  weak  adulterate  race,  [place. 

Degenerate  from  their  sires,  pollutes  high  honour's 

Breathe,  breathe  again,  ye  free, 

The  air  of  liberty, 
The  native  air  of  wisdom,  virtue,  joy  ! 

And,  might  ye  know  to  keep 

The  golden  wealth  ye  reap, 
Not  thrice  ten  years  of  terror  and  annoy, 

Of  mad  destructive  anarchy, 
And  pitiless  oppression,  were  a  price  too  high. 

Vaulting  ambition  ! 

Thy  bloody  laurels  torn, 
And  ravish'd  from  thy  grasp  the  sin-bought  prize; 

Or,  if  thy  meteor  fame 

Still  win  the  world's  acclaim, 
Let  it  behold  thee  now  with  alter'd  eyes, 

And  pass,  but  with  a  pitying  smile, 
The  hope-abandon'd  chief  of  Elba's  lonely  isle. 


FROM  RUFINUS. 

THIS  garland  intertwined  with  fragrant  flowers, 
Pluck'd  by  my  hand,  to  thee,  my  love,  I  send, 
Pale  lilies  here  with  blushing  roses  blend ; 

Anemone,  besprent  with  April  showers ; 

Lovelorn  Narcissus  ;  violet  that  pours 

From  every  purple  cup  the  glad  perfume  ; 
And,  while  upon  thy  sweeter  breast  they  bloom, 

Yield  to  the  voice  of  love  thy  passing  hours  ! 

For  thou,  like  these,  wilt  fade  at  nature's  doom. 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  LEARNING. 

WHOSO  with  patient  and  inquiring  mind 
Would  seek  the  stream  of  science  to  ascend, 
Must  count  the  cost,  and  never  hope  to  find 
Rest  to  his  feet,  or  to  his  wanderings  end. 
The  faithless  road  doth  ever  onward  tend, 
And  clouds  and  darkness  are  its  utmost  bound: 
The  sacred  fount  no  human  eye  hath  kenn'd, 
Though  many  a  wight,  beguiled  by  sight  or  sound, 
"Evp^xa!"  may  exclaim;  "I — I  the  place  have 
found." 

And,  sooth  to  tell,  it  is  a  pleasant  way 
Through  sweet  variety  of  lawn  and  wood, 
Mountain  and  vale,  green  pasture,  forest  gray 
And  peopled  town,  and  silent  solitude ; 
And  many  a  point,  at  distance  dimly  view'd, 
For  idle  loiterers  an  unmeasured  height, 
By  persevering  energy  subdued, 
Rewards  the  bold  adventurer  with  a  sight 
Of  undiscover'd  worlds — vast  regions  of  delight. 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHARGE  OF  INCON- 
STANCY. 

OH  not  that  I  am  faithless  say 

Or  that  my  love's  no  more  the  same, 
If  Cynthia  once  inspired  my  lay, 

And  then  Licymnia  lit  the  flame 
One  goddess  only  I  adore, 

Although  in  different  forms  I  woo  her ; 
Nor,  though  she  bid  me  love  no  more, 

Could  I  be  e'er  inconstant  to  her. 

The  sailor,  midst  the  dangerous  main, 

Full  many  a  lovely  region  sees, 
Fair  islands,  bright  with  golden  grain, 

And  rich  with  ever-blooming  trees; 
But,  till  the  destined  port  he  gains, 

Those  transient  charms  he  little  prizes, 
And  quits  with  joy  the  happiest  plains 

Soon  as  a  favouring  gale  arises. 

My  fancy  had  a  mistress  drawn, 

And  stamp'd  her  image  on  my  heart ; 
I  roved  o'er  hill  and  vale  and  lawn, 

But  ne'er  could  find  the  counterpart : 
This  had  the  form,  the  air,  the  face, 

That,  the  sweet  smile's  bewitching  beauty, 
Arid  every  singly  winning  grace 

Fix'd  for  the  time  my  wandering  duty. 

But  now  'tis  sped — my  fancy's  flight : 

All  former  trivial,  vain  desires, 
Like  spectres  fade  before  the  light, 

Or  perish  in  sublimer  fires. 
He  needs  not  fear  again  to  fall 

Before  the  shadow  of  perfection, 
Who  for  the  bright  original 

Has  dared  avow  his  soul's  election. 


HORACE    SMITH. 


MR.  SMITH  was  born  about  the  year  1780, 
in  London,  where  his  father  was  an  eminent 
solicitor.  In  1812  he  and  his  elder  brother, 
Mr.  JAMES  SMITH,  wrote  their  celebrated 
"Rejected  Addresses,"  a  work  which  has 
passed  through  twenty-five  editions,  and 
which  is  now,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than 
thirty  years,  hardly  less  popular  than  on  its 
first  appearance.  They  soon  afterward  pub- 
lished "  Horace  in  London,"  parts  of  which 
had  appeared  in  the  "  Monthly  Mirror,"  and 
in  1813  the  subject  of  this  notice  produced 
a  successful  comedy  entitled  "  First  Impres- 
sions," and  subsequently  "The  Runaway," 
"  Trevenion  or  Matrimonial  Errors,"  "  Bram- 
bletye  House,"  "  Tor  Hill,"  "Reuben  Aps- 
ley,"  and  several  other  novels,  some  of  which 
were  deemed  not  unworthy  of  the  author  of 
"  Waverly."  In  1840  he  published  an  edition 
of  the  Miscellaneous  Writings  of  his  brother 


JAMES,  who  died  in  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  his 
age,  in  1839 ;  and  in  1842  his  last  work, 
"  Adam  Brown,  the  Merchant." 

Mr.  SMITH  is  one  of  the  most  voluminous 
and  popular  writers  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
I  have  seen  no  separate  collection  of  his 
poems,  but  his  imitations  in  the  "  Rejected 
Addresses,"  his  parodies  of  HORACE,  and  his 
lyrical  contributions  to  the  literary  magazines, 
show  him  to  be  not  only  an  admirable  versifier, 
but  a  possessor  of  the  sense  of  beauty  and  a 
most  poetical  fancy.  His  powers  are  versa- 
tile, and  he  has  shown  himself  able  to  master 
any  style  with  which  he  has  chosen  to  grap- 
ple. His  works  have  uniformly  been  success- 
ful, and  the  reader  of  his  "  Hymn  to  the 
Flowers,"  and  other  pieces  in  this  volume, 
will  not  doubt  that  if  he  had  devoted  attention 
to  poetry,  he  would  have  won  an  enduring  and 
enviable  reputation  as  a  poet. 


HYMN  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

DAY-STARS  !    that  ope  your  eyes  with  man,  to 

twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  holy  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation. 

Ye  matin  worshippers  !  who  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun,  God's  lidless  eye  ! 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high. 

Ye  bright  Mosaics !    that  with  storied  beauty 

The  floor  of  nature's  temple  tesselate 
With  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty, 
Your  forms  create. 

Neath    cloister'd  boughs,  each   floral    bell    that 

swingeth, 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn, 
Which  God  hath  plann'd ; 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  sup- 

piy; 


Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves — its  organ  thunder — 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander        [sod, 
Through  the  green  aisles,  or  stretch'd  upon  the 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God. 

Your  voiceless  lips,  0  flowers !  are  living  preachers, 

Each  cup  a  pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles  !  that  in  dewy  splendour, 

«  Weep  without  wo,  and  blush  without  a  crime," 
Oh  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime ! 

''Thou  wert  not,  Solomon  !  in  all  thy  glory, 

Array'd,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes  like  ours  ; 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !  ah,  how  transitory, 
Are  human  flowers !" 

In  the  sweet  scented  pictures,  heavenly  Artist ! 
With  which  thou  paintest  nature's  wide-spread 

hall, 

What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers  !    though  made  for 

pleasure, 

Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave  by  day  and  night, 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

141 


HORACE    SMITH. 


Ephemeral  sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  1 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope. 

Posthumous  glories  !  angel-like  collection  ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interr'd  in  earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection, 
A  second  birth. 

Were  I,  O  God  !  in  churchless  lands  remaining, 

Far  from  all  voice  6*f  teachers  or  divines, 
My  soul  would  find  in  flowers  of  thy  ordaining, 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines  ! 


THE  HEAD  OF  MEMNON. 

Ix  Egypt's  centre,  when  the  world  was  young, 
My  statue  soar'd  aloft, — a  man-shaped  tower, 

O'er  hundred-gated  Thebes,  by  Homer  sung, 
And  built  by  Apis'  and  Osiris'  power. 

When  the  sun's  infant  eye  more  brightly  blazed, 
I  mark'd  the  labours  of  unwearied  time  ; 

And  saw,  by  patient  centuries  up-raised, 
Stupendous  temples,  obelisks  sublime  ! 

Hewn  from  the  rooted  rock,  some  mightier  mound, 
Some  new  colossus  more  enormous  springs, 

So  vast,  so  firm,  that,  as  I  gazed  around, 
I  thought  them,  like  myself,  eternal  things. 

Then  did  I  mark  in  sacerdotal  state, 

Psammis  the  king,  whose  alabaster  tomb, 

(Such  the  inscrutable  decrees  of  fate,) 

Now  floats  athwart  the  sea  to  share  my  doom. 

O  Thebes,  I  cried,  thou  wonder  of  the  world  ! 

Still  shalt  thou  soar,  its  everlasting  boast ; 
When  lo !  the  Persian  standards  were  unfurl'd, 

And  fierce  Cambyses  led  the  invading  host. 

Where  from  the  east  a  cloud  of  dust  proceeds, 
A  thousand  banner'd  suns  at  once  appear  ; 

Nought  else  was  seen  ; — but  sound  of  neighing 

steeds, 
And  faint  barbaric  music  met  mine  ear. 

Onward  they  march,  and  foremost  I  descried, 
A  cuirassed  Grecian  band,  in  phalanx  dense, 

Around  them  throng'd,  in  oriental  pride, 
Commingled  tribes — a  wild  magnificence. 

Dogs,  cats,  and  monkeys  in  their  van  they  show, 
Which  Egypt's  children  worship  and  obey ; 

They  fear  to  strike  a  sacrilegious  blow, 
And  fall — a  pious,  unresisting  prey. 

Then,  havoc  leaguing  with  infuriate  zeal, 
Palaces,  temples,  cities  are  o'erthrown  ; 

Apis  is  stabb'd  ! — Cambyses  thrusts  the  steel, 
And  shuddering  Egypt  heaved  a  general  groan  ! 

The  firm  Memnonium  mock'd  their  feeble  power, 
Flames  round  its  granite  columns  hiss'd  in  vain, 

The  head  of  Isis,  frowning  o'er  each  tower, 
Look'd  down  with  indestructible  disdain. 


Mine  was  a  deeper  and  more  quick  disgrace  : — 
Beneath  my  shade  a  wondering  army  flock'd ; 

With  force  combined,  they  wrench'd  me  from  my 

base, 
And  earth  beneath  the  dread  concussion  rock'd. 

Nile  from  his  banks  receded  with  affright, 

The  startled  Sphinx  long  trembled  at  the  sound  ; 

While  from  each  pyramid's  astounded  height, 
The  loosen'd  stones  slid  rattling  to  the  ground. 

I  watch'd,  as  in  the  dust  supine  I  lay, 

The  fall  of  Thebes, — as  I  had  mark'd  its  fame, — 

Till  crumbling  down,  as  ages  roll'd  away, 
Its  site  a  lonely  wilderness  became  ! 

The  throngs  that  choked  its  hundred  gates  of  yore, 
Its  fleets,  its  armies,  were  no  longer  seen ; 

Its  priesthood's  pomp,  its  Pharaohs  were  no  more, — 
All — all  were  gone — as  if  they  ne'er  had  been  ! 

Deep  was  the  silence  now,  unless  some  vast 
And  time-worn  fragment  thurider'd  to  its  base ; 

Whose  sullen  echoes,  o'er  the  desert  cast, 
Died  in  the  distant  solitude  of  space. 

Or  haply,  in  the  palaces  of  kings, 

Some  stray  jackal  sate  howling  on  the  throne : 
Or,  on  the  temple's  holiest  altar,  springs 

Some  gaunt  hyaena,  laughing  all  alone. 

Nature  o'erwhelms  the  relics  left  by  time ; — 
By  slow  degrees  entombing  all  the  land  ; 

She  buries  every  monument  sublime, 

Beneath  a  mighty  winding-sheet  of  sand. 

Vain  is  each  monarch's  unremitting  pains, 
Who  in  the  rock  his  place  of  burial  delves ; 

Behold  !   their  proudest  palaces  and  fanes 
Are  subterraneous  sepulchres  themselves. 

Twenty-three  centuries  unmoved  I  lay, 
And  saw  the  tide  of  sand  around  me  rise ; 

Quickly  it  threaten'd  to  engulf  its  prey, 
And  close  in  everlasting  night  mine  eyes. 

Snatch'd  in  this  crisis  from  my  yawning  grave, 
Belzoni  roll'd  me  to  the  banks  of  Nile, 

And  slowly  heaving  o'er  the  western  wave, 
This  massy  fragment  reach'd  the  imperial  isle. 

In  London,  now  with  face  erect  I  gaze 

On  England's  pallid  sons,  whose  eyes  upcast, 

View  my  colossal  features  with  amaze, 
And  deeply  ponder  on  my  glories  past. 

But  who  my  future  destiny  shall  guess! 

Saint  Paul's  may  lie,  like  Memnon's  temple,  low ; 
London,  like  Thebes,  may  be  a  wilderness, 

And  Thames,  like  Nile,  through  silent  ruins  flow. 

Then  haply  may  my  travels  be  renew'd : — 
Some  transatlantic  hand  may  break  my  rest, 

And  bear  me  from  Augusta's  solitude, 
To  some  new  seat  of  empire  in  the  west. 

Mortal !  since  human  grandeur  ends  in  dust, 
And  proudest  piles  must  crumble  to  decay  ; 

Build  up  the  tower  of  thy  final  trust  [away  ! 

In  those  blest  realms — where  naught  shall  pass 


HORACE    SMITH. 


143 


MORAL   RUINS. 

ASIA'S  rock-hollow'd  fanes,  first-born  of  time, 
In  sculpture's  prime, 

Wrought  by  the  ceaseless  toil  of  many  a  race, 
Whom  none  may  trace, 

Have  crumbled  back  to  wastes  of  ragged  stone, 

And  formless  caverns,  desolate  and  lone. 

Egypt's  stern  temples,  whose  colossal  mound, 
Sphinx-guarded,  frown'd 

From  brows  of  granite  challenges  to  fate 
And  human  hate, 

Are  giant  ruins  in  a  desert  land, 

Or  sunk  to  sculptured  quarries  in  the  sand. 

The  marble  miracles  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
Temple  and  dome, 

Art's  masterpieces,  awful  in  th'  excess 
Of  loveliness, 

Hallow'd  by  statued  gods  which  might  be  thought 

To  be  themselves  by  the  celestials  wrought, — 

Where  are  they  now  ? — their  majesty  august, 

Grovels  in  dust, 
Time  on  their  altars  prone  their  ruins  flings 

As  offerings 

Forming  a  lair  whence  ominous  bird  and  brute 
Their  wailful  misereres  howl  and  hoot. 

Down  from  its  height  the  Druid's  sacred  stone, 
In  sport  is  thrown, 

And  many  a  Christian  fane  have  change  and  hate 
Made  desolate, 

Prostrating  saint,  apostle,  statue,  bust, 

With  Pagan  deities  to  mingle  dust. 

On  these  drear  sepulchres  of  buried  days 
'T  is  sad  to  gaze  ; 

Yet,  since  their  substances  were  perishable, 
And  hands  unstable 

Uprear'd  their  piles,  no  wonder  that  decay 

Both  man  and  monument  should  sweep  away. 

Ah  me !  how  much  more  sadden'd  is  my  mood, 
How  heart-subdued, 

The  ruins  and  the  wrecks  when  I  behold, 
By  time  unroli'd, 

Of  all  the  faiths  that  mati  hath  ever  known, 

World-worshipp'd  once — now  spurn'd  and  over- 
thrown ! 

Religions — from  the  soul  deriving  breath, 

Should  know  no  death, 

Yet  do  they  perish,  mingling  their  remains 
With  fallen  fanes. 

Creeds,  canons,  dogmas,  councils,  are  the  wreck'd 

And  mouldering  masonry  of  intellect. 

Apis,  Osiris,  paramount  of  yore, 

On  Egypt's  shore, 

Woden  and  Thor,  through  the  wide  north  adored, 
With  blood  outworn ; 

Jove,  and  the  multiform  divinities, 

To  whom  the  Pagan  nations  bent  their  knees, — 

Lo !  they  are  cast  aside,  dethroned,  forlorn, 
Defaced,  outworn, 


Like  the  world's  childish  dolls,  which  but  insult 

Its  age  adult, 

Or  prostrate  scarecrows,  on  whose  rags  we  tread, 
With  scorn  proportion'd  to  our  former  dread. 

Alas,  for  human  reason  !  all  is  change, 

Ceaseless  and  strange, 

All  ages  form  new  systems,  leaving  heirs 
To  cancel  theirs ; 

The  future  will  but  imitate  the  past, 

And  instability  alone  will  \ast. 

Is  there  no  compass,  then,  by  which  to  steer 
This  erring  sphere  1 

No  tie  that  may  indissolubly  bind 

To  God,  mankind  ! 

No  code  that  may  defy  time's  sharpest  tooth  ] 

No  fix'd,  immutable,  unerring  truth  1 

There  is  !  there  is  !     One  primitive  and  sure, 

Religion  pure, 
Unchanged  in  spirit,  though  its  forms  and  codes 

Wear  myriad  modes, 

Contains  all  creeds  within  its  mighty  span — 
The  lave  of  God,  displayed  in  love  of  man. 

This  is  the  Christian's  faith,  when  rightly  read  : 
Oh  !  may  it  spread 

Till  earth,  redeem'd  from  every  hateful  leaven, 
Makes  peace  with  heaven  ; 

Below,  one  blessed  brotherhood  of  love, 

One  Father — worshipp'd  with  one  voice — above  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  AN  EGYPTIAN  MUMMY. 


thou   hast   walk'd    about  —  how  strange    a 

story  !  — 

In  Thebes's  streets,  three  thousand  years  ago  ! 
When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 

And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 
Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 
Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous  ! 

Speak  !—  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy, 
Thou  hast  a  tongue,  —  come  —  let  us  hear  its  tune! 

Thou  'rt    standing    on    thy    legs,    above-ground, 

mummy  ! 
Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  — 

Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 

B  ut  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,and  limbs  and  features! 

Tell  us  —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect,  — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame?  — 

Was  Cheops,  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  pyramid  that  bears  his  name  7  — 

Is  Pompey's  pillar  really  a  misnomer  ]  — 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  mason,  —  and  forbidden, 
By  oath,  to  tell  the  mysteries  of  thy  trade  : 

Then  say,  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  play'd  ? 

Perhnps  thou  wert  a  priest  ;  —  if  so,  my  struggles 

Are  vain,  —  for  priestcraft  never  owns  its  juggles  ! 


144 


HORACE    SMITH. 


Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinion'd  flat, 
Hath  hob-a-nobb'd  with  Pharaoh,glass  to  glass, — 

Or  dropp'd  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat, — 

Or  doff 'd  thine  own,  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass, — 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch,  at  the  great  temple's  dedication ! 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  arm'd, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  maul'd  and  knuckled? 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  embalm'd, 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled  : — 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  could st  develope,  if  that  wither'd  tongue 
Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have  seen, 

How  the  world  look'd  when  it  was  fresh  and  young, 
And  the  great  deluge  still  had  left  it  green  ! — 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  history's  pages 

Contain'd  no  record  of  its  early  ages  1 

Still  silent ! — Incommunicative  elf ! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  1     Then  keep  thy  vows  ! 
But,  prithee,  tell  us  something  of  thyself, — 

Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house  : — 
Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slumber'd, 
What  hast  thou  seen — what  strange  adventures 
number'd  1 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended, 
We  have,  above-ground,  seen  some  strange  mu- 
tations ; 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended, — 
New  worlds  have  risen, — we  have  lost  old 

nations, — 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled, 
While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head, 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

March'd  armies  o'er  thy  tomb,with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, — 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confess'd, 
The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  ! 

A  heart  hath  throbb'd  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 
And  tears  adown  that  dusty  cheek  have  roll'd : — 

Have  children  climb'd  those  knees,  and  kiss'd  that 
face  1 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  1 

Statue  of  flesh  !— Immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence  ! 
Posthumous  man, — who  quitt'st  thy.  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecay'd  within  our  presence  I 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its 
warning ! 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever? 

Oh  !  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalm'd  and  pure 
In  living  virtue, — that  when  both  must  sever, 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom ! 


TO  THE  ALABASTER  SARCOPHAGUS, 

DEPOSITED    IN    THE   BRITISH    MUSEUM. 

THOU  alabaster  relic  !  while  I  hold 

My  hand  upon  thy  sculptured  margin  thrown, 
Let  me  recall  the  scenes  thou  couldst  unfold, 

Might'st  thou  relate  the  changes  thou  hast  known ; 
For  thou  wert  primitive  in  thy  formation, 
Launch'd  from  the  Almighty's  hand  at  the  creation. 

Yes — thou  wert  present  when  the  stars  and  skies 
And  worlds  unnurnber'd  roll'd  into  their  places ; 

When  God  from  chaos  bade  the  spheres  arise, 
And  fix'd  the  blazing  sun  upon  its  basis, 

And  with  his  finger  on  the  bounds  of  space 

Mark'd  out  each  planet's  everlasting  race. 

How  many  thousand  ages  from  thy  birth 

Thou  slept'st  in  darkness  it  were  vain  to  ask, 

Till  Egypt's  sons  upheaved  thee  from  the  earth, 
And  year  by  year  pursued  their  patient  task, 

Till  thou  wert  carved  and  decorated  thus, 

Worthy  to  be  a  king's  sarcophagus  ! 

What  time  Elijah  to  the  skies  ascended, 
Or  David  reign'd  in  holy  Palestine, 

Some  ancient  Theban  monarch  was  extended 
Beneath  the  lid  of  this  emblazon'd  shrine, 

And  to  that  subterraneous  palace  borne, 

Which  toiling  ages  in  the  rock  had  worn. 

Thebes,  from  her  hundred  portals,  fill'd  the  plain, 
To  see  the  car  on  which  thou  wert  upheld ; 

What  funeral  pomps  extended  in  thy  train, 

What  banners  waved,  what  mighty  music  swell'd, 

As  armies,  priests,  and  crowds  bewail'd  in  chorus, 

Their  King — their  God — their  Serapis — their  Orus! 

Thus  to  thy  second  quarry  did  they  trust 
Thee,  and  the  lord  of  all  the  nations  round, 

Grim  king  of  silence  !  monarch  of  the  dust ! 
Embalm'd,  anointed,  jewel'd,  scepter'd,  crown'd, 

Here  did  he  lie  in  state,  cold,  stiff,  and  stark, 

A  leathern  Pharaoh  grinning  in  the  dark. 

Thus  ages  roll'd ;  but  their  dissolving  breath 
Could  only  blacken  that  imprison'd  thing, 

Which  wore  a  ghastly  royalty  in  death, 
As  if  it  struggled  still  to  be  a  king ; 

And  each  dissolving  century,  like  the  last, 

Just  dropp'd  its  dust  upon  thy  lid,  and  pass'd. 

The  Persian  conqueror  o'er  Egypt  pour'd 
His  devastating  host — a  motley  crew ; 

The  steel-clad  horseman, — the  barbarian  horde, — 
Music  and  men  of  every  sound  and  hue, — 

Priests,  archers,  eunuchs,  concubines,  and  brutes, — 

Gongs,  trumpets,  cymbals,  dulcimers,  and  lutes. 

Then  did  the  fierce  Cambyses  tear  away 

The  ponderous  rock  that  seal'd  the  sacred  tomb ; 

Then  did  the  slowly  penetrating  ray 

Redeem  thee  from  long  centuries  of  gloom, 

And  lower'd  torches  flash'd  against  thy  side, 

As  Asia's  king  thy  blazon'd  trophies  eyed. 


HORACE    SMITH. 


145 


Pluck'd  from  his  grave,  with  sacrilegious  taunt, 
The  features  of  the  royal  corse  they  scann'd  ; 

Dashing  the  diadern  from  his  temple  gaunt, 

They  tore  the  sceptre  from  his  graspless  hand  ; 

And  on  those  fields,  where  once  his  will  was  law, 

Left  him  for  winds  to  waste  and  beasts  to  gnaw. 

Some  pious  Thebans,  when  the  storm  was  past, 
Upciosed  the  sepulchre  with  cunning  skill, 

And  nature,  aiding  their  devotion,  cast 
Over  its  entrance  a  concealing  rill ; 

Then  thy  third  darkness  came,  and  thou  didst  sleep 

Twenty-three  centuries  in  silence  deep. 

But  he  from  whom  nor  pyramids  nor  sphynx 
Can  hide  its  secrecies,  Belzoni  came ; 

From  the  tomb's  mouth  unlink'd  the  granite  links, 
Gave  thee  again  to  light,  and  life,  and  fame, 

And  brought  thee  from  the  sands  and  deserts  forth, 

To  charm  the  pallid  children  of  the  north  ! 

Thou  art  in  London,  which,  when  thou  wert  new, 
Was  what  Thebes  is,  a  wilderness  and  waste, 

Where  savage  beast  more  savage  men  pursue  ; 
A  scene  by  nature  cursed,  by  man  disgraced. 

Now — 'tis  the  world's  metropolis  !     The  high 

Queen  of  arms,  learning,  arts,  and  luxury  ! 

Here,  where  I  hold  my  hand,  'tis  strange  to  think 
What  other  hands,  perchance,  preceded  mine ; 

Others  have  also  stood  beside  thy  brink, 
And  vainly  conn'd  the  moralizing  line ! 

Kings,  sages,  chiefs,  that  touch'd  this  stone,  like  me, 

Where  are  ye  now  1 — Where  all  must  shortly  be. 

All  is  mutation  ; — he  within  this  stone 

Was  once  the  greatest  monarch  of  the  hour. 

His  bones  are  dust,  hi?  very  name  unknown  ! — 
Go,  learn  from  him  the  vanity  of  power; 

Seek  not  the  frame's  corruption  to  control, 

But  build  a  lasting  mansion  for  thy  soul. 


MORAL  ALCHEMY. 

THE  toils  of  alchemists,  whose  vain  pursuit 

Sought  to  transmute 
Dross  into  gold,  their  secrets  and  their  store 

Of  mystic  lore, 

What  to  the  jibing  modern  do  they  seem  1 
An  ignis  fatuus  chace,  a  fantasy,  a  dream  ! 

Yet  for  enlighten'd  moral  alchemists, 

There  still  exists 
A  philosophic  stone,  whose  magic  spell 

No  tongue  may  tell, 

Which  renovates  the  soul's  decaying  health, 
And  what  it  touches  turns  to  purest  mental  wealth. 

This  secret  is  reveal'd  in  every  trace 

Of  nature's  face, 
Whose  seeming  frown  invariably  tends 

To  smiling  ends 

Transmuting  ills  into  their  opposite, 
And  all  that  shocks  the  sense  to  subsequent  delight. 

Seems  earth  unlovely  in  her  robe  of  snow? 
Then  look  below, 
19 


Where  nature  in  her  subterranean  ark, 

Silent  and  dark, 

Already  has  each  floral  germ  unfurl'd,         [world. 
That  shall  revive  and  clothe  the  dead  and  naked 

Behold  those  perish'd  flowers  to  earth  consign'd ; 

They,  like  mankind, 
Seek  in  their  grave  new  birth.     By  nature's  power, 

Each  in  its  hour, 

Clothed  in  new  beauty  from  its  tomb  shall  spring, 
And  from  each  tube  and  chalice  heavenward  incense 

fling- 
Laboratories  of  a  wider  fold 

I  now  behold, 
Where  are  prepared  the  harvests  yet  unborn, 

Of  wine,  oil,  corn. — 

In  those  mute,  ray  less  banquet-halls  I  see, 
Myriads  of  coming  feasts  with  all  their  revelry. 

Yon  teeming  and  minuter  cells  enclose 

The  embryos, 
Of  fruits  and  seeds,  food  of  the  feather'd  race, 

Whose  chanted  grace, 
Swelling  in  choral  gratitude  on  high, 
Shall  with  thanksgiving  anthems  melodize  the  sky. 

And  what  materials,  mystic  alchemist ! 

Dost  thou  enlist 
To  fabricate  this  ever  varied  feast, 

For  man,  bird,  beast ! 

Whence  the  life,  plenty,  music,  beauty,  bloom  1 
From  silence,  languor,  death,  unsightliness,  and 
gloom  ! 

From  nature's  magic  hand  whose  touch  makes  sad- 
Eventual  gladness,  [ness 

The  reverent  moral  alchemist  may  learn 
The  art  to  turn 

Fate's  roughest,  hardest,  most  forbidding  dross, 

Into  the  mental  gold  that  knows  not  change  or  loss. 

Lose  we  a  valued  friend  ]     To  soothe  our  wo 

Let  us  bestow 
On  those  who  still  survive  an  added  love, 

So  shall  we  prove, 

Howe'er  the  dear  departed  we  deplore,          [store. 
In  friendship's  sum  and  substance  no  diminish'd 

Lose  we  our  health  1     Now  may  we  fully  know 

What  thanks  we  owe 
For  our  sane  years,  perchance  of  lengthen'd  scope; 

Now  does  our  hope 

Point  to  the  day  when  sickness  taking  flight, 
Shall  make  us  better  feel  health's  exquisite  delight. 

In  losing  fortune  many  a  lucky  elf 

Has  found  himself. — 
As  all  our  moral  bitters  are  design'd 

To  brace  the  mind, 

And  renovate  its  healthy  tone,  the  wise 
Their  sorest  trials  hail  as  blessings  in  disguise. 

There  is  no  gloom  on  earth,  for  God  above 

Chastens  in  love ; 
Transmuting  sorrows  into  golden  joy 

Free  from  alloy, 

His  dearest  attribute  is  still  to  bless,  [fulness. 

And  man's  most  welcome  hymn  is  grateful  cheer- 

N 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


THOMAS  MOORE,  who  has  unquestionably 
attained  to  the  highest  reputation  as  a  lyric 
poet  of  all  contemporaries,  was  born  in  Dub- 
lin, on  the  twenty-eighth  of  May,  1780,  and 
at  the  early  age  of  fourteen  years,  became 
a  student  of  Trinity  College  in  his  native 
city,  where  he  took  his  degree  in  1799.  He 
then  went  to  London,  entered  the  Middle  Tem- 
ple, and  in  due  time  was  admitted  to  the  bar. 

In  1800  he  published  his  translation  of 
"  Anacreon,"  which  at  once  made  him  famous 
among  the  gay  and  the  witty  spirits  who 
thronged  the  court  of  the  Regent.  Of  this 
translation  it  may  be  said,  that  while  it  equals 
the  original  in  grace  and  harmony,  it  unhap- 
pily surpasses  it  in  seductiveness  and  volup- 
tuous license.  In  the  next  year  it  was  followed 
by  a  volume  of  amatory  poems,  under  the 
name  of  LITTLE,  which  has  been  no  less  cele- 
brated for  its  lubricity  and  licentiousness. 

In  1803  he  was  appointed  Registrar  to  the 
Admiralty  in  Bermuda,  and  during  his  absence 
from  England  he  made  a  flying  visit  to  the 
United  States,  which  gave  rise  to  a  series  of 
satirical  and  somewhat  bitter  Odes  and  Epis- 
tles on  society  and  manners  in  this  country, 
published  on  his  return  to  London,  in  1806. 
These  were  attacked  in  an  article  by  JEFFREY, 
and  the  poet  sent  the  critic  a  challenge.  The 
parties  met,  but  the  police  prevented  a  duel, 
and  the  pistols,  on  examination,  were  found 
to  contain  paper  pellets,  which  the  seconds 
had  cautiously  substituted  for  bullets,  a  circum- 
stance alluded  to  by  BYRON  in  his  "  English 
Bards,"  in  a  manner  which  provoked  a  re- 
monstrance from  Mr.  MOORE.  The  poets 
however,  soon  became  intimate  friends,  and 
continued  so  till  the  death  of  BYRON. 

In  1811  appeared  Mr.  MOORE'S  "M.  P.,  or 
the  Blue  Stocking;"  in  1812,  "The  Two- 
penny Post  Bag,  by  Thomas  Browne  the 
Younger;"  in  1813,  his  "Irish  Melodies;" 
in  1816,  his  "  Sacred  Songs,"  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year,  his  celebrated  oriental  romance 
of  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  the  four  tales  in  which, 
and  the  framework  which  unites  them,  were 
compared  in  the  "  Edinburgh  Review"  to 
four  beautiful  pearls,  joined  together  by  a 
146 


thread  of  silk  and  gold.  Much  the  best  of 
these  tales,  and  the  best  of  all  Mr.  MOORE'S 
longer  poems,  is  "The  Fire-Worshippers," 
which  is  quoted  entire  in  the  following  pages. 
Another  volume  of  humorous  sarcasm, 
entitled  "The  Fudge  Family  in  Paris," 
appeared  in  1818,  and  in  1823  his  "  Loves  of 
the  Angels,"  a  poem  containing  some  beauti- 
ful passages,  but  altogether  inferior  to  his 
earlier  productions,  and  undeserving  of  com- 
parison with  BYRON'S  "  Heaven  and  Earth," 
or  CROLY'S  "Angel  of  the  World,"  which  are 
founded  on  the  same  subject.  Beside  these 
poems,  he  has  written  "  Fables  for  the  Holy 
Alliance,"  "  Corruption  and  Intolerance," 
"The  Skeptic,"  "The  Summer  Fete,"  and 
others,  all  of  which  are  included  in  the  edition 
of  his  poetical  works  published  by  Carey  and 
Hart,  in  the  present  year. 

Mr.  MOORE  we  believe  commenced  his 
career  as  an  author  with  some  brilliant  but 
not  very  powerful  political  tracts,  and  he  has 
since  produced  several  prose  works,  none  of 
which,  excepting  "The  Epicurean,"  have 
added  to  his  good  reputation.  The  Life  of 
SHERIDAN  is  an  amusing  book;  and  with 
such  materials  as  were  placed  in  the  hands 
of  his  biographer  it  could  not  well  have  been 
made  otherwise.  When  GEORGE  IV.  was  told 
that  MOORE  had  murdered  SHERIDAN,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  Not  so  :  he  only  attempted  his  life." 
His  memoirs  of  BYRON,  which  appeared  in 
two  quarto  volumes  in  1830,  are  alike  un- 
worthy the  subject  and  the  author ;  and 
the  burning  of  some  of  BYRON'S  papers,  at 
the  request  of  interested  parties,  was  an  act  of 
dishonour  toward  the  great  poet,  which  no- 
thing can  justify.  The  "Life  of  Captain 
Rock,"  and  "  The  Irish  Gentleman  in  Search 
of  Religion,"  and  the  "  History  of  Ireland," 
of  which  several  volumes  have  been  pub- 
lished, would  hardly  be  attributed  to  the  author 
of  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  and  the  "Irish  Melodies," 
were  his  name  not  on  their  title  pages. 

The  history  of  Mr.  MOORE  is  little  more 
than  the  history  of  his  writings.  He  is  de- 
servedly popular  in  society  for  his  amiable 
qualities  and  fascinating  manners;  he  has 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


147 


shared  the  intimacy  of  all  the  greatest  men  and 
writers  of  an  era  more  prolific  in  great  men 
and  great  geniuses  than  any  since  that  of 
SHAKSPEARE,  and  RALEIGH,  and  SIDNEY;  and 
dividing  his  time  between  the  quiet  charms 
of  domestic  ease  and  the  smiles  of  the  most 
elevated  society,  he  may  be  pronounced  a 
happy  and  a  fortunate  man.  As  a  song  writer, 
he  doubtless  stands  unrivalled.  His  versi- 
fication is  exquisitely  finished,  harmonious, 
and  musically  toned.  The  sense  is  never  obvi- 
ously sacrificed  to  the  sound  ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  delights  in  that  species  of  antithetical  and 


THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

'T  is  moonlight  over  Oman's  sea  ; 

Her  banks  of  pearl  and  palmy  isles 
Bask  in  the  night-beam  beauteously, 

And  her  blue  waters  sleep  in  smiles, 
'T  is  moonlight  in  Harmozia's  walls, 
jj    And  through  her  emir's  porphyry  halls, 

Where,  some  hours  since,  was  heard  the  swell 
|!    Of  trumpet  and  the  clash  of  zel, 
!     Bidding  the  bright-eyed  sun  farewell ; — 
|    The  peaceful  sun,  whom  better  suits 

The  music  of  the  bulbul's  nest, 
Or  the  light  touch  of  lover's  lutes, 

To  sing  him  to  his  golden  rest ! 
All  hush'd — there's  not  a  breeze  in  motion, 
The  shore  is  silent  as  the  ocean. 
If  zephyrs  come,  so  light  they  come, 

Nor  leaf  is  stirr'd  nor  wave  is  driven  ; — 
The  wind-tower  on  the  emir's  dome 

Can  hardly  win  a  breath  from  heaven. 
E'en  he,  that  tyrant  Arab,  sleeps 
Calm,  while  a  nation  round  him  weeps ; 
While  curses  load  the  air  he  breathes, 
And  falchions  from  unnumber'd  sheaths 
Are  starting  to  avenge  the  shame 
His  race  had  brought  on  Iran's  name. 
Hard,  heartless  chief,  unmoved  alike 
Mid  eyes  that  weep,  and  swords  that  strike  ; — 
One  of  that  saintly,  murderous  brood, 

To  carnage  and  the  Koran  given, 
Who  think  through  unbelievers'  blood 

Lies  their  directest  path  to  heaven  : 
One,  who  will  pause  and  kneel  unshod 

In  the  warm  blood  his  hand  hath  pour'd, 
To  mutter  o'er  some  text  of  God 

Engraven  on  his  reeking  sword  ; — 
Nay,  who  can  coolly  note  the  line, 
The  letter  of  those  words  divine, 
To  which  his  blade,  with  searching  art, 
Had  sunk  into  its  victim's  heart ! 
Just  Alia  !  what  must  be  thy  look, 

When  such  a  wretch  before  thee  stands 
Unblushing,  with  thy  sacred  book, 

Turning  the  leaves  with  blood-stain'd  hands, 
And  wresting  from  its  page  sublime 
His  creed  of  lust  and  hate  and  crime  7 


epigrammatic  turn,  which  is  generally  held  to 
excuse  some  roughness,  and  to  be  scarcely 
compatible  with  perfect  melody  of  rhythm. 

In  grace,  both  of  thought  and  diction,  in  easy 
fluent  wit,  in  melody,  in  brilliancy  of  fancy,  in 
warmth  and  depth  of  sentiment,  and  even  in 
purity  and  simplicity,  when  he  chooses  to  be 
pure  and  simple,  no  one  is  superior  to  MOORE  : 
but  in  grandeur  of  conception,  power  of 
thought,  and,  above  all,  unity  of  purpose,  and  a 
great  aim,  he  is  singularly  deficient,  and  these 
are  necessary  to  the  character,  not  of  a  sweet 
minstrel,  but  of  a  great  poet. 


E'en  as  those  bees  of  Trebizond, — 

Which,  from  the  sunniest  hours  that  glad 
With  their  pure  smile  the  gardens  round, 

Draw  venom  forth  that  drives  men  mad ! 
Never  did  fierce  Arabia  send 

A  satrap  forth  more  direly  great; 
Never  was  Iran  doom'd  to  bend 

Beneath  a  yoke  of  deadlier  weight. 
Her  throne  had  fallen — her  pride  was  crush' d- 
Her  sons  were  willing  slaves,  nor  blush'd 
In  their  own  land — no  more  their  own — 
To  crouch  beneath  a  stranger's  throne. 
Her  towers,  where  Mithra  once  had  burn'd, 
To  Moslem  shrines — oh  shame  !  were  turn'd, 
Where  slaves,  converted  by  the  sword, 
Their  mean,  apostate  worship  pour'd, 
And  cursed  the  faith  their  sires  adored. 
Yet  has  she  hearts,  mid  all  this  ill, 
O'er  all  this  wreck  high  buoyant  still 
With  hope  and  vengeance  : — hearts  that  yet, 

Like  gems,  in  darkness  issuing  rays 
They've  treasured  from  the  sun  that's  set, 

Beam  all  the  light  of  long-lost  days  ! — 
And  swords  she  hath,  nor  weak  nor  slow 

To  second  all  such  hearts  can  dare ; 
As  he  shall  know,  well,  dearly  know, 

Who  sleeps  in  moonlight  luxury  there, 
Tranquil  as  if  his  spirit  lay 
Becalm'd  in  heaven's  approving  ray  ! 
Sleep  on — for  purer  eyes  than  thine 
Those  waves  are  husb'd,  those  planets  shine. 
Sleep  on,  and  be  thy  rest  unmoved 

By  the  white  moonbeam's  dazzling  power : 
None  but  the  loving  and  the  loved 

Should  be  awake  at  this  sweet  hour. 

And  see — where,  high  above  those  rocks 
That  o'er  the  deep  their  shadows  fling, 
Yon  turret  stands  ;  where  ebon  locks, 
As  glossy  as  a  heron's  wing 
Upon  the  turban  of  a  king, 
Hang  from  the  lattice,  long  and  wild. 
'Tis  she,  that  emir's  blooming  child, 
All  truth,  and  tenderness,  and  grace, 
Though  born  of  such  ungentle  race  ; 
An  image  of  youth's  radiant  fountain 
Springing  in  a  desolate  mountain  ! 


148 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


Oh  what  a  pure  and  sacred  thing 

Is  beauty,  curtain'd  from  the  sight 
Of  the  gross  world,  illumining 

One  only  mansion  with  her  light  I 
Unseen  by  man's  disturbing  eye, — 

The  flower,  that  blooms  beneath  the  sea 
Too  deep  for  sunbeams,  doth  not  lie 

Hid  in  more  chaste  obscurity  ! 
So,  Hinda,  have  thy  face  and  mind, 
Like  holy  mysteries,  lain  enshrined. 
And  oh  what  transport  for  a  lover 

To  lift  the  veil  that  shades  them  orer  !— 
Like  those,  who,  all  at  once,  discover 

In  the  lone  deep  some  fairy  shore, 

Where  mortal  never  trod  before, 
And  sleep  and  wake  in  scented  airs 
No  lip  had  ever  breath'd  but  theirs ! 

Beautiful  are  the  maids  that  glide 

On  summer  eves,  through  Yemen's  dales ; 
And  bright  the  glancing  looks  they  hide 

Behind  their  litters'  roseate  veils ; — 
And  brides,  as  delicate  and  fair 
As  the  white  jassamined  flowers  they  wear, 
Hath  Yemen  in  her  blissful  clime, 

Who,  lull'd  in  cool  kiosk  or  bower, 
Before  their  mirrors  count  the  time, 

And  grow  still  lovelier  every  hour. 
But  never  yet  hath  bride  or  maid 

In  Araby's  gay  harams  smiled, 
Whose  boasted  brightness  would  not  fade 

Before  Al  Hassan's  blooming  child. 

Light  as  the  angel-shapes  that  bless 
An  infant's  dream,  yet  not  the  less 
Rich  in  all  woman's  loveliness  : — 
With  eyes  so  pure,  that  from  their  ray 
Dark  vice  would  turn  abash'd  away, 
Blinded,  like  serpents  when  they  gaze 
Upon  the  emerald's  virgin  blaze  I — 
Yet,  fill'd  with  all  youth's  sweet  desires, 
Mingling  the  meek  and  vestal  fires 
Of  other  worlds  with  all  the  bliss, 
The  fond,  weak  tenderness  of  this  ! 
A  soul,  too,  more  than  half  divine, 

Where,  through  some  shades  of  earthly  feeling, 
Religion's  soften'd  glories  shine, 

Like  light  through  summer  foliage  stealing, 
Shedding  a  glow  of  such  mild  hue, 
So  warm,  and  yet  so  shadowy  too, 
As  makes  the  very  darkness  there 
More  beautiful  than  light  elsewhere  ! 
Such  is  the  maid,  who,  at  this  hour, 

Hath  risen  from  her  restless  sleep, 
And  sits  alone  in  that  high  bower, 

Watching  the  still  and  shining  deep. 
Ah  !  'twas  not  thus, — with  tearful  eyes 

And  beating  heart, — she  used  to  gaze 
On  the  magnificent  earth  and  skies, 

In  her  own  land,  in  happier  days. 
Why  looks  she  now  so  anxious  down 
Among  those  rocks,  whose  rugged  frown 

Blackens  the  mirror  of  the  deep  ? 
Whom  waits  she  all  this  lonely  night  1 

Too  rough  the  rocks,  too  bold  the  steep, 
For  man  to  scale  that  turret's  height ! — 


So  deem'd  at  least  her  thoughtful  sire, 

When  high,  to  catch  the  cool  night  air 
After  the  day-beam's  withering  fire, 

He  built  her  bower  of  freshness  there, 
And  had  it  deck'd  with  costliest  skill, 

And  fondly  thought  it  safe  as  fair  : — 
Think,  reverend  dreamer  !  think  so  still, 

Nor  wake  to  learn  what  love  can  dare — 
Love,  all-defying  love,  who  sees 
No  charm  in  trophies  won  with  ease ; — 
Whose  rarest,  dearest  fruits  of  bliss 
Are  pluck'd  on  danger's  precipice ! 
Bolder  than  they,  who  dare  not  dive 

For  pearls,  but  when  the  sea's  at  rest, 
Love,  in  the  tempest  most  alive, 

Hath  ever  held  that  pearl  the  best 
He  finds  beneath  the  stormiest  water ! 
Yes — Araby's  unrivall'd  daughter, 
Though  high  that  tower,  that  rock-way  rude, 

There's  one  who,  but  to  kiss  thy  cheek, 
Would  climb  th'  untrodden  solitude 

Of  Ararat's  trejnendous  peak, 
And  think  its  steeps,  though  dark  and  dread, 
Heav'n's  path-ways,  if  to  thee  they  led  ! 
E'en  now  thou  seest  the  flashing  spray, 
That  lights  his  oar's  impatient  way : 
E'en  now  thou  hear'st  the  sudden  shock 
Of  his  swift  bark  against  the  rock, 
And  stretchest  down  thy  arms  of  snow, 
As  if  to  lift  him  from  below  ! 
Like  her  to  whom,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  bridegroom,  with  his  locks  of  light, 
Came,  in  the  flush  of  love  and  pride, 
And  scaled  the  terrace  of  his  bride; — 
When,  as  she  saw  him  rashly  spring, 
And  midway  up  in  danger  cling, 
She  flung  him  down  her  long  black  hair, 
Exclaiming,  breathless,  «  There,  love  there  !" 
And  scarce  did  manlier  nerve  uphold 

The  hero  Zal  in  that  fond  hour, 
Than  wings  the  youth,  who,  fleet  and  bold 

Now  climbs  the  rocks  to  Hinda's  bower. 
See — light  as  up  their  granite  steeps 

The  rock-goats  of  Arabia  clamber, 
Fearless  from  crag  to  crag  he  leaps, 

And  now  is  in  the  maiden's  chamber. 

She  loves — but  knows  not  whom  she  loves, 

Nor  what  his  race,  nor  whence  he  came ; — 
Like  one  who  meets,  in  Indian  groves, 

Some  beauteous  bird,  without  a  name, 
Brought  by  the  last  ambrosial  breeze, 
From  isles  in  the  undiscover'd  seas, 
To  show  his  plumage  for  a  day 
To  wondering  eyes,  and  wing  away  J 
Will  he  thus  fly — her  nameless  lover  * 

Alia  forbid !  'twas  by  a  moon 
As  fair  as  this,  while  singing  over 

Some  ditty  to  her  soft  Kanoon, 
Alone,  at  this  same  watching  hour, 

She  first  beheld  his  radiant  eyes 
Gleam  through  the  lattice  of  the  bower, 

Where  nightly  now  they  mix  their  sighs ; 
And  thought  some  spirit  of  the  air 
(For  what  could  waft  a  mortal  there  !) 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


149 


Was  pausing  on  his  moonlight  way 

To  listen  to  her  lonely  lay  ! 

This  fancy  ne'er  hath  lel't  her  mind : 

And  though,  when  terror's  swoon  had  past, 
She  saw  a  youth,  of  mortal  kind, 

Before  her  in  obeisance  cast, — 
Yet  often  since,  when  he  hath  spoken 
Strange,  awful  words, — and  gleams  have  broken 
From  his  dark  eyes,  too  bright  to  bear, 

Oh !  she  hath  fear'd  her  soul  was  given 
To  some  unhallow'd  child  of  air, 

Some  erring  spirit,  cast  from  heaven, 
Like  those  angelic  youths  of  old, 
Who  burn'd  for  maids  of  mortal  mould, 
Bewilder'd  left  the  glorious  skies, 
And  lost  their  heaven  for  woman's  eyes  ! 

Fond  girl !  nor  fiend,  nor  angel  he, 
Who  woos  thy  young  simplicity  ; 
But  one  of  earth's  impassion' d  sons, 

As  warm  in  love,  as  fierce  in  ire, 
As  the  best  heart  whose  current  runs 

Full  of  the  day-god's  living  fire  ! 

But  quench'd  to-night  that  ardour  seems, 

And  pale  his  cheek,  and  sunk  his  brow : 
Never  before,  but  in  her  dreams, 

Had  she  beheld  him  pale  as  now : 
And  those  were  dreams  of  troubled  sleep, 
From  which  'twas  joy  to  wake  and  weep  , 
Visions  that  will  not  be  forgot, 

But  sadden  every  waken  scene, 
Like  warning  ghosts,  that  leave  the  spot 

All  wither'd  where  they  once  have  been ! 

"  How  sweetly,"  said  the  trembling  maid, 

Of  her  own  gentle  voice  afraid, 

So  long  had  they  in  silence  stood, 

Looking  upon  that  tranquil  flood — 

"  How  sweetly  does  the  moonbeam  smile 

To-night  upon  yon  leafy  isle ! 

Oft,  in  my  fancy's  wanderings, 

I  've  wish'd  that  little  isle  had  wings, 

And  we,  within  its  fairy  bowers, 

Were  wafted  off  to  seas  unknown, 
Where  not  a  pulse  should  beat  but  ours, 

And  we  might  live,  love,  die  alone — 
Far  from  the  cruel  and  the  cold — 

Where  the  bright  eyes  of  angels  only 
Should  come  around  us  to  behold 

A  paradise  so  pure  and  lonely  ! 
Would  this  be  world  enough  for  thee?" — 
Playful  she  turn'd,  that  he  might  see, 

The  passing  smile  her  cheek  put  on  ; 
But  when  she  mark'd  how  mournfully 

His  eyes  met  hers,  that  smile  was  gone  ; 
And  bursting  into  heart-felt  tears, 
"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  "  my  hourly  fears, 
My  dreams  have  boded  all  too  right — 
We  part — for  ever  part — to-night ! 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  last — 
'Twas  bright,  'twas  heavenly,  but  'tis  past ! 
Oh!  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I  've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  ; 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower, 

But  'twas  the  first  to  fade  away. 


I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die  ! 
Now  too — the  joy  most  like  divine, 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew, 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine — 

Oh  misery  !  must  I  lose  that  too  ] 
Yet  go — on  peril's  brink  we  meet; — 

Those  frightful  rocks — that  treacherous 
No,  never  come  again — though  sweet, 

Though  heaven — it  may  be  death  to  thee. 
Farewell — -and  blessings  on  thy  way, 

Where'er  thou  goest,  beloved  stranger ! 
Better  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray, 
And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  away, 

Than  have  thee  near  me,  and  in  danger  !" 

"  Danger  ! — oh,  tempt  me  not  to  boast," 
The  youth  exclaim'd — «  thou  little  know'st 
What  he  can  brave,  who,  born  and  nurst 
In  danger's  paths,  has  dared  her  worst ! 
Upon  whose  ear  the  signal-word 

Of  strife  and  death  is  hourly  breaking ; 
Who  sleeps  with  head  upon  the  sword 

His  fever'd  hand  must  grasp  in  waking ! 
Danger ! — " 

"  Say  on — thou  fear'st  not  then, 
And  we  may  meet — oft  meet  again  ?" 

"  Oh  !  look  not  so — beneath  the  skies 

I  now  fear  nothing  but  those  eyes. 

If  aught  on  earth  could  charm  or  force 

My  spirit  from  its  destined  course, — 

If  aught  could  make  this  soul  forget 

The  bond  to  which  its  seal  is  set, 

'T  would  be  those  eyes  ; — they,  only  they, 

Could  melt  that  sacred  seal  away  ! 

But  no — 'tis  fix'd — my  awful  doom 

Is  fix'd — on  this  side  of  the  tomb 

We  meet  no  more — why,  why  did  heaven 

Mingle  two  souls  that  earth  has  riven, 

Has  rent  asunder  wide  as  ours  ] 

Oh,  Arab  maid !  as  soon  the  powers 

Of  light  and  darkness  may  combine, 

As  I  be  link'd  with  thee  or  thine ! 

Thy  father " 

"  Holy  Alia  save 

His  gray-head  from  that  lightning  glance ! 
Thou  know'st  him  not — he  loves  the  brave 

Nor  lives  there  under  heaven's  expanse 
One  who  would  prize,  would  worship  thee, 
And  thy  bold  spirit,  more  than  he. 
Oft  when,  in  childhood,  I  have  play'd 

With  the  bright  falchion  by  his  side, 
I  've  heard  him  swear  his  lisping  maid 

In  time  should  be  a  warrior's  bride. 
And  still,  whene'er,  at  haram  hours, 
I  take  him  cool  sherbets  and  flowers, 
He  tells  me,  when  in  playful  mood, 

A  hero  shall  rny  bridegroom  be, 
Since  maids  are  best  in  battle  woo'd, 

And  won  with  shouts  of  victory  ! 
Nay,  turn  not,  from  me — thou  alone 
Art  fonn'd  to  make  both  hearts  thy  own, 


150 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


Go — join  his  sacred  ranks — thou  know'st 

The  unholy  strife  these  Persians  wage  : — 
Good  heaven  that  frown  ! — e'en  now  thou  glow'st 
With  more  than  mortal  warrior's  rage. 
Haste  to  the  camp  by  morning's  light, 
And,  when  that  sword  is  raised  in  fight, 
Oh,  still  remember  love  and  I 
Beneath  its  shadow  trembling  lie ! 
One  victory  o'er  those  slaves  of  fire, 
Those  impious  Ghebers,  whom  my  sire 

Abhors " 

"  Hold,  hold — thy  words  are  death — " 
The  stranger  cried,  as  wild  he  flung 
His  mantle  back,  and  show'd  beneath 

The  Gheber  belt  that  round  him  clung. 
"  Here,  maiden  look — weep — blush  to  see 
All  that  thy  sire  abhors  in  me  ! 
Yes—/  am  of  that  impious  race, 

Those  slaves  of  fire,  who,  morn  and  even, 
Hail  their  Creator's  dwelling-place 

Among  the  living  lights  of  heaven  ! 
Ves — /  am  of  that  outcast  few, 
To  Iran  and  to  vengeance  true, 
Who  curse  the  hour  your  Arabs  came 
To  desolate  our  shrines  of  flame, 
And  swear,  before  God's  burning  eye, 
To  break  our  country's  chains,  or  die. 
Thy  bigot  sire — nay,  tremble  not — 

He  who  gave  birth  to  those  dear  eyes, 
With  me  is  sacred  as  the  spot 

From  which  our  fires  of  worship  rise  ! 
But  know — 'twas  he  I  sought  that  night, 
When,  from  my  watch-boat  on  the  sea, 
I  caught  this  turret's  glimmering  light, 

And  up  the  rude  rocks  desperately 
Rush'd  to  my  prey — thou  know'st  the  rest — 
I  climb'd  the  gory  vulture's  nest, 
And  found  a  trembling  dove  within  ; — 
Thine,  thine  the  victory — thine  the  sin — 
If  love  hath  made  one  thought  his  own, 
That  vengeance  claims  first — last — alone  ! 
Oh  !  had  we  never,  never  met, 
Or  could  this  heart  e'en  now  forget 
How  link'd,  how  bless'd  we  might  have  been, 
Had  fate  not  frown'd  so  dark  between, 
Hadst  thou  been  born  a  Persian  maid, 

In  neighbouring  valleys  had  we  dwelt, 
Through  the  same  fields  in  childhood  play'd, 

At  the  same  kindling  altar  knelt, — 
Then,  then,  while  all  those  nameless  ties, 
In  which  the  charm  of  country  lies, 
Had  round  our  hearts  been  hourly  spun, 
Till  Iran's  cause  and  thine  were  one ; — 
While  in  thy  lute's  awakening  sigh 
I  heard  the  voice  of  days  gone  by, 
And  saw  in  every  smile  of  thine 
Returning  hours  of  glory  shine  ! — 
While  the  wrong'd  spirit  of  our  land  [thee — 

Lived,   look'd,  and   spoke  her  wrongs  through 
God  !  who  could  then  this  sword  withstand  I 

Its  very  flash  were  victory  ! 
But  now — estranged,  divorced  for  ever, 
Far  as  the  grasp  of  fate  can  sever; 
Our  only  ties  what  love  has  wove, — 

Faith,  friends,  and  country,  sunder'd  wide ; — 


And  then,  then  only,  true  to  love, 

When  false  to  all  that 's  dear  beside  ! 
Thy  father  Iran's  deadliest  foe — 
Thyself,  perhaps,  e'en  now — but  no — 
Hate  never  look'd  so  lovely  yet ! 

No — sacred  to  thy  soul  will  be 
The  land  of  him  who  could  forget 

All  but  that  bleeding  land  for  thee  ! 
When  other  eyes  shall  see,  unmoved, 

Her  widows  mourn,  her  warriors  fall, 
Thou  'It  think  how  well  one  Gheber  loved, 

And  for  his  sake  thou  'It  weep  for  all ! 

But  look " 

With  sudden  start  he  turn'd 

And  pointed  to  the  distant  wave, 
Where  lights,  like  charnel  meteors,  burn'd 

Bluely,  as  o'er  some  seaman's  grave ; 
And  fiery  darts,  at  intervals, 

Flew  up  all  sparkling  from  the  main, 
As  if  each  star  that  nightly  falls, 

Were  shooting  back  to  heaven  again. 

"  My  signal-lights ! — I  must  away — 

Both,  both  are  ruin'd,  if  I  stay. 

Farewell — sweet  life  !  thou  cling'st  in  vain — 

Now — Vengeance  ! — I  am  thine  again." 

Fiercely  he  broke  away,  nor  stopp'd 

Nor  look'd — but  from  the  lattice  dropp'd 

Down  mid  the  pointed  crags  beneath, 

As  if  he  fled  from  love  to  death. 

While  pale  and  mute  young  Hinda  stood, 

Nor  moved,  till  in  the  silent  flood 

A  momentary  plunge  below 

Startled  her  from  her  trance  of  wo ; 

Shrieking  she  to  the  lattice  flew, — 

"  I  come — I  come — if  in  that  tide 
Thou  sleep' st  to-night — I  '11  sleep  there  too, 

In  death's  cold  wedlock  by  thy  side. 
Oh  !  I  would  ask  no  happier  bed 

Than  the  chill  wave  my  love  lies  under; — 
Sweeter  to  rest  together  dead, 

Far  sweeter,  than  to  live  asunder  !" 
But  no — their  hour  is  not  yet  come — 

Again  she  sees  his  pinnace  fly, 
Wafting  him  fleetly  to  his  home, 

Where'er  that  ill-starr'd  home  may  lie ; 
And  calm  and  smooth  it  seem'd  to  win 

Its  moonlight  way  before  the  wind, 
As  if  it  bore  all  peace  within, 

Nor  left  one  breaking  heart  behind. 


THE  princess,  whose  heart  was  sad  enough  already, 
could  have  wished  that  Feramorz  had  chosen  a  less 
melancholy  story  ;  as  it  is  only  to  the  happy  that  tears 
are  a  luxury.  Her  ladies,  however,  were  by  no  means 
sorry  that  love  was  once  more  the  poet's  theme  ;  for, 
when  he  spoke  of  love,  they  said,  his  voice  was  as  sweet 
as  if  he  had  chewed  the  loaves  of  that  enchanted  tree, 
which  grows  over  the  tomb  of  the  musician,  Tan-Sein. 

Their  road  all  the  morning  had  Inin  through  a  very 
dreary  country  ; — through  valleys,  covared  with  a  low 
bushy  jungle,  where,  in  more  than  one  place,  the  awful 
signal  of  the  bamboo  staff,  with  the  white  flair  at  its  top, 
reminded  the  traveller  that  in  that  very  spot,  the  tiger 
had  made  some  human  crnture  his  victim.  It  was  there- 
fore with  much  pleasure  that  they  arrived  ;it  sunset  in  a 
safe  and  lovely  glen,  and  encamped  under  one  of  those 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


151 


holy  trees,  whose  smooth  columns  and  spreading  roofs 
seem  to  destine  them  for  natural  temples  of  religion. 
Beneath  the  shade,  some  pious  hands  had  erected  pillars 
ornamented  with  the  most  beautiful  porcelain,  which  now 
supplied  the  use  of  mirrors  to  the  young  maidens,  as  they 
adjusted  their  hair  in  descending  from  the  palankeens. 
Here  while,  as  usual,  the  princess  sat  listening  anxiously, 
with  Fadladeen  in  one  of  his  lofiiest  moods  of  criticism  by 
her  side,  the  young  poet,  leaning  against  a  branch  of  the 
tree,  thus  continued  his  story  : — 

THE  morn  had  risen  clear  and  calm, 

And  o'er  the  Green  Sea  palely  shines, 
Revealing  Bahrein's  groves  of  palm, 

And  lighting  Kisma's  amber  vines. 
Fresh  smell  the  shores  of  Araby, 
While  breezes  from  the  Indian  sea 
Blow  round  Selama's  sainted  cape, 

And  curl  the  shining  flood  beneath, — 
Whose  waves  are  rich  with  many  a  grape, 

And  cocoa-nut  and  flowery  wreath, 
Which  pious  seamen,  as  they  pass'd, 
Had  toward  that  holy  headland  cast — 
Oblations  to  the  genii  there 
For  gentle  skies  and  breezes  fair  ! 
The  nightingale  now  bends  her  flight 
From  the  high  trees,  where  all  the  night 

She  sung  so  sweet,  with  none  to  listen, 
And  hides  her  from  the  morning  star 

Where  thickets  of  pomegranate  glisten 
In  the  clear  dawn, — bespangled  o'er 

With  dew,  whose  night-drops  would  not  stain 
The  best  and  brightest  scimetar 
That  ever  youthful  sultan  wore 

On  the  first  morning  of  his  reign  ! 

And  see — the  sun  himself! — on  wings 
Of  glory  up  the  east  he  springs. 
Angel  of  light !  who,  from  the  time 
Those  heavens  began  their  march  sublime, 
Hath  first  of  all  the  starry  choir 
Trod  in  his  Maker's  steps  of  fire  ! 

Where  are  the  days,  thou  wondrous  sphere, 
When  Iran,  like  a  sun-flower,  tnrn'd 
To  meet  that  eye  where'er  it  burn'd  T — 

When,  from  the  banks  of  Bendemeer 
To  the  nut-groves  of  Samarcand 
Thy  temples  flamed  o'er  all  the  land  1 
Where  are  they  1  ask  the  shades  of  them 
Who,  on  Cadessia's  bloody  plains, 

Saw  fierce  invaders  plurk  the  gem 

From  Iran's  broken  diadem, 
And  bind  her  ancient  faith  in  chains : — 
Ask  the  poor  exile,  cast  alone 
On  foreign  shores,  unloved,  unknown, 
Beyond  the  Caspian's  Iron  Gates, 

Or  on  the  snowy  Mossian  mountains, 
Far  from  his  beauteous  land  of  dates, 

Her  jasmine  bowers  and  sunny  fountains  ! 
Yet  happier  so  than  if  he  trod 
His  own  beloved  but  blighted  sod, 
Beneath  a  despot  stranger's  nod  ! — 
Oh  !  he  would  rather  houseless  roam 

Where  freedom  and  his  God  may  lead, 
Than  be  the  sleekest  slave  at  home 

That  crouches  to  the  conqueror's  creed ! 
Is  Iran's  pride  then  gone  for  ever, 


Quench'd  with  the  flame  in  Mithra's  caves  1 — 
No — she  has  sons  that  never — never — 
Will  stoop  to  be  the  Moslem's  slaves, 
While  heaven  has  light  or  earth  has  graves. 
Spirits  of  fire,  that  brood  not  long, 
But  flash  resentment  back  for  wrong  ; 
And  hearts,  where,  slow  but  deep,  the  seeds 
Of  vengeance  ripen  into  deeds ; 
Till,  in  some  treacherous  hour  of  calm, 
They  burst,  like  Zeilan's  giant  palm, 
Whose  buds  fly  open  with  a  sound 
That  shakes  the  pigmy  forests  round  ! 

Yes,  Emir !  he,  who  scaled  that  tower, 

And,  had  he  reach'd  thy  slumbering  breast, 
Had  taught  thee,  in  a  Gheber's  power, 

How  safe  e'en  tyrants'  heads  may  rest — 
Is  one  of  many,  brave  as  he,  . 

Who  loathe  thy  haughty  race  and  thee; 
Who,  though  they  know  the  strife  is  vain — 
Who,  though  they  know  the  riven  chain 
Snaps  but  to  enter  in  the  heart 
Of  him  who  rends  its  links  apart, 
Yet  dare  the  issue — blest  to  be 
E'en  for  one  bleeding  moment  free, 
AndfUie  in  pangs  of  liberty  ! 
Thou  know'st  them  well — 'tis  some  moon  since 

Thy  turban'd  troops  and  blood-red  flags, 
Thou  satrap  of  a  bigot  prince  ! 

Have  swarm'd  among  these  Green  Sea  crags ; 
Yet  here,  e'en  here,  a  sacred  band, 
Ay,  in  the  portal  of  that  land 
Thou,  Arab,  darest  to  call  thy  own, 
Their  spears  across  thy  path  have  thrown ; 
Here — ere  the  winds  half  wing'd  thee  o'er — 
Rebellion  braved  thee  from  the  shore. 

Rebellion  !  foul,  dishonouring  word, 

Whose  wrongful  blight  so  oft  has  stain'J 
The  holiest  cause  that  tongue  or  sword 

Of  mortal  ever  lost  or  gain'd. 
How  manv  a  spirit,  born  to  bless, 

Hath  sunk  beneath  that  withering  name, 
Whom  but  a  day's,  an  hour's,  success 

Had  wafted  to  eternal  fame  ! 
As  exhalations  when  they  burst 
From  the  warm  earth,  if  chill'd  at  first, 
If  check'd  in  soaring  from  the  plain, 
Darken  to  fogs  and  sink  again ; — 
But  if  they  once  triumphant  spread 
Their  wings  above  the  mountain-head, 
Become  enthroned  in  upper  air, 
And  turn  to  sun-bright  glories  there ! 

And  who  is  he,  that  wields  the  might 

Of  freedom  on  the  Green  Sea  brink, 
Before  whose  sabre's  dazzling  light 

The  eyes  of  Yemen's  warriors  wink '? 
Who  comes  embower'd  in  the  spears 
Of  Kerman's  hardy  mountaineers  1 — 
Those  mountaineers,  that,  truest,  last, 

Cling  to  their  country's  ancient  rites, 
As  if  that  god  whose  eyelids  cast 

Their  closing  gleam  on  Iran's  heights, 
Among  her  snowy  mountains  threw 
The  last  light  of  his  worship  too  ! 


152 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


'Tis  Hafed — name  of  fear,  whose  sound 

Chills  like  the  muttering  of  a  charm  ; — 
Shout  but  that  awful  name  around, 

And  palsy  shakes  the  manliest  arm. 
'Tis  Hafed,  most  accurst  and  dire 
(So  rank'd  by  Moslem  hate  and  ire) 
Of  all  the  rebel  Sons  of  Fire  ! 
Of  whose  malign,  tremendous  power 
The  Arabs,  at  their  mid-watch  hour 
Such  tales  of  fearful  wonder  tell, 
That  each  affrighted  sentinel 
Pulls  down  his  cowl  upon  his  eyes, 
Lest  Hafed  in  the  midst  should  rise  ! 
A  man,  they  say,  of  monstrous  birth, 
A  mingled  race  of  flame  and  earth, 
Sprung  from  those  old,  enchanted  kings, 

Who  in  their  fairy  helms,  of  yore, 
A  fefther  from  the  mystic  wings 

Of  the  Simoorgh  resistless  wore  ; 
And  gifted  by  the  Fiends  of  Fire, 
Who  groan  to  see  their  shrines  expire, 
With  charms  that,  all  in  vain  withstood, 
Would  drown  the  Koran's  light  in  blood  ! 

Such  were  the  tales  that  won  belief, 

And  such  the  colouring  fancy  gave 
To  a  young,  warm,  and  dauntless  chief, — 

One  who,  no  more  than  mortal  brave, 
Fought  for  the  land  his  soul  adored, 

For  happy  homes,  and  altars  free, — 
His  only  talisman,  the  sword, 

His  only  spell-word,  liberty  ! 
One  of  that  ancient  hero  line, 
Along  whose  glorious  current  shine 
Names  that  have  sanctified  their  blood; 
As  Lebanon's  small  mountain  flood 
Is  render'd  holy  by  the  ranks 
Of  sainted  cedars  on  its  banks  ! 
'T  was  not  for  him  to  crouch  the  knee 
Tamely  to  Moslem  tyranny  ; — 
'T  was  not  for  him,  whose  soul  was  cast 
In  the  bright  mould  of  ages  past, 
Whose  melancholy  spirit,  fed 
With  all  the  glories  of  the  dead, 
Though  framed  for  Iran's  happiest  years, 
Was  born  among  her  chains  and  tears  f 
'T  was  not  for  him  to  swell  the  crowd 
Of  slavish  heads,  that,  shrinking,  bow'd 
Before  the  Moslem,  as  he  pass'd. 
Like  shrubs  beneath  the  poison  blast — 
No — far  he  fled,  indignant  fled 

The  pageant  of  his  country's  shame  j 
While  every  tear  her  children  shed 

Fell  on  his  soul  like  drops  of  flame  ; 
And  as  a  lover  hails  the  dawn 

Of  a  first  smile,  so  welcomed  he 
The  sparkle  of  the  first  sword  drawn 
For  vengeance  and  for  liberty  ! 

But  vain  was  valour — vain  the  flower 

Of  Kerman,  in  that  deathful  hour, 

Against  Al  Hassan's  whelming  power. 

In  vain  they  met  him,  helm  to  helm, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  that  realm 

He  came  in  bigot  pomp  to  sway, 

And  with  their  corpses  block'd  his  way — 


In  vain — for  every  lance  they  raised, 
Thousands  around  the  conqueror  blazed  ; 
For  every  arm  that  lined  their  shore, 
Myriads  of  slaves  were  wafted  o'er — 
A  bloody,  bold,  and  countless  crowd, 
Before  whose  swarms  as  fast  they  bow'd 
As  dates  beneath  the  locust  cloud  ! 

There  stood — but  one  short  league  away 
From  old  Harmozia's  sultry  bay — 
A  rocky  mountain,  o'er  the  sea 
Of  Oman  beetling  awfully  : 
A  last  and  solitary  link 

Of  those  stupendous  chains  that  reach 
From  the  broad  Caspian's  reedy  brink 

Down  winding  to  the  Green  Sea  beach. 
Around  its  base  the  bare  rocks  stood, 
Like  naked  giants,  in  the  flood, 

As  if  to  guard  the  gulf  across  : 
While,  on  its  peak,  that  braved  the  sky, 
A  ruin'd  temple  tower'd,  so  high 

That  oft  the  sleeping  albatross 
Struck  the  wild  ruins  with  her  wing, 
And  from  her  cloud-rock'd  slumbering 
Started — to  find  man's  dwelling  there 
In  her  own  silent  fields  of  air  ! 
Beneath,  terrific  caverns  gave 
Dark  welcome  to  each  stormy  wave 
That  dash'd,  like  midnight  revellers,  in  ; — 
And  such  the  strange,  mysterious  din 
At  times  throughout  those  caverns  roll'd  ;- 
And  such  the  fearful  wonders  told 
Of  restless  sprites  imprisoned  there, 
That  bold  were  Moslem,  who  would  dare, 
At  twilight  hour,  to  steer  his  skiff 
Beneath  the  Gheber's  lonely  cliff. 

On  the  land  side,  those  towers  sublime, 
That  seem'd  above  the  grasp  of  time, 
Were  sever'd  from  the  haunts  of  men 
By  a  wide,  deep,  and  wizard  glen, 
So  fathomless,  so  full  of  gloom, 

No  eye  could  pierce  the  void  between  ; 
It  seem'd  a  place  where  Gholes  might  come 
With  their  foul  banquets  from  the  tomb, 

And  in  its  caverns  feed  unseen. 
Like  distant  thunder,  from  below, 

The  sound  of  many  torrents  came ; 
Too  deep  for  eye  or  ear  to  know 
If 't  were  the  sea's  imprison'd  flowr 

Or  floods  of  ever-restless  flame. 
For  each  ravine,  each  rocky  spire 
Of  that  vast  mountain  stood  on  fire  ; 
And,  though  for  ever  past  the  days 
When  God  was  worshipp'd  in  the  blaze 
That  from  its  lofty  altar  shone, — 
Though  fled  the  priests,  the  votaries  gone, 
Still  did  the  mighty  flame  burn  on 
Through  chance  and  change,  through  good  and  ill 
Like  its  own  God's  eternal  will, 
Deep,  constant,  bright,  unquenchable  ! 

Thither  the  vanquished  Hafed  led 

His  little  army's  last  remains  ; — 
"  Welcome,  terrific  trlen  !"  he  said, 
«  Thy  gloom,  that  Eblis'  self  might  dread, 

Is  heaven  to  him  who  flies  from  chains !" 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


153 


O'er  a  dark,  narrow  bridge-way,  known 

To  him  and  to  his  chiefs  alone, 

They  cross'd  the  chasm  and  gain'd  the  towers  ;- 

"  This  home,"  he  cried,  "  at  least  is  ours — 

Here  we  may  bleed,  unmock'd  by  hymns 

Of  Moslem  triumph  o'er  our  head  ; 
Here  we  may  fall,  nor  leave  our  limbs 

To  quiver  to  the  Moslem's  tread ; 
Stretch'd  on  this  rock,  while  vulture's  beaks 
Are  whetted  on  our  yet  warm  cheeks, 
Here, — happy  that  no  tyrant's  eye 
Gloats  on  our  torments — we  may  die  ! 

'Twas  night  when  to  those  towers  they  came ; 
And  gloomily  the  fitful  flame, 
That  from  the  ruin'd  altar  broke, 
Glared  on  his  features,  as  he  spoke  : — 

"'Tis  o'er — what  men  could  do,  we've  done  : 
If  Iran  will  look  tamely  on, 
And  see  her  priests,  her  warriors  driven 

Before  a  sensual  bigot's  nod, 
A  wretch,  who  takes  his  lusts  to  heaven, 

And  makes  a  pander  of  his  God  ! 
If  her  proud  sons,  her  high-horn  souls, 

Men,  in  whose  veins — oh  last  disgrace  ! 
The  blood  of  Zal,  and  Rustam,  rolls, — 

If  they  will  court  this  upstart  race, 
And  turn  from  Mithra's  ancient  ray, 
To  kneel  at  shrines  of  yesterday  ! 
If  they  will  crouch  to  Iran's  foes, 

Why,  let  them — till  the  land's  despair 
Cries  out  to  heav'n,  and  bondage  grows 

Too  vile  for  e'en  the  vile  to  bear  ! 
Till  shame  at  last,  long  hidden,  burns 
Their  inmost  core,  and  conscience  turns 
Each  coward  tear  the  slave  lets  fall 
Back  on  his  heart  in  drops  of  gall ! 
But  here,  at  least,  are  arms  unchain'd, 
And  souls  that  thraldom  never  stain'd  ; — • 

This  spot,  at  least,  no  foot  of  slave 
Or  satrap  ever  yet  profaned  ; 

And,  though  but  few — though  fast  the  wave 
Of  life  is  ebbing  from  our  veins, 
Enough  for  vengeance  still  remains. 
As  panthers,  after  set  of  sun, 
Rush  from  the  roots  of  Lebanon 
Across  the  dark  sea-robber's  way, 
We  '11  bound  upon  our  startled  prey  ; — 
And  when  some  hearts  that  proudest  swell 
Have  felt  our  falchion's  last  farewell ; 
When  hope's  expiring  throb  is  o'er, 
And  e'en  despair  can  prompt  no  more, 
This  spot  shall  be  the  sacred  grave 
Of  the  last  few  who,  vainly  brave, 
Die  for  the  land  they  cannot  save  !" 
His  chiefs  stood  round — each  shining  blade 
Upon  the  broken  altar  laid — 
And  though  so  wild  and  desolate 
Those  courts,  where  once  the  mighty  sate  ; 
No  longer  on  those  mouldering  towers 
Was  seen  the  feast  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
With  which  of  old  the  Magi  fed 
The  wandering  spirits  of  their  dead  ; 
Though  neither  priests  nor  rites  were  there, 
Nor  charmed  leaf  of  pure  pomegranate, 
20 


Nor  hymn,  nor  censer's  fragrant  air, 

Nor  symbol  of  their  worshipp'd  planet ; 
Yet  the  same  God  that  heard  their  sires 
Heard  them  /  while  on  that  altar's  fires 
They  swore  the  latest,  holiest  deed 
Of  the  few  hearts,  still  left  to  bleed, 
Should  be,  in  Iran's  injured  name, 
To  die  upon  that  mount  of  flame — 
The  last  of  all  her  patriot  line, 
Before  her  last  untrampled  shrine ! 

Brave,  su ffering. souls  !  they  little  knew 
How  many  a  tear  their  injuries  drew 
From  one  meek  maid,  one  gentle  foe, 
Whom  love  first  touch'd  with  others'  wo — 
Whose  life,  as  free  from  thought  as  sin, 
Slept  like  a  lake,  till  love  threw  in 
His  talisman,  and  woke  the  tide, 
And  spread  its  trembling  circles  wide. 
Once,  Emir  !  thy  unheeding  child, 
Mid  all  this  havoc,  bloorn'd  and  smiled, — 
Tranquil  as  on  some  battle-plain 

The  Persian  lily  shines  and  towers, 
Before  the  combat's  reddening  stain 

Hath  fall'n  upon  her  golden  flowers. 
Light-hearted  maid,  unawed,  unmoved, 
While  Heaven  but  spared  the  sire  she  loved, 
Once  at  thy  evening  tales  of  blood 
Unlistening  and  aloof  she  stood — 
And  oft,  when  thou  hast  paced  along, 

Thy  haram  halls  with  furious  heat, 
Hast  thou  not  cursed  her  cheerful  song, 

That  came  across  thee,  calm  and  sweet, 
Like  lutes  of  angels,  touch'd  so  near 
Hell's  confines,  that  the  damn'd  can  hear. 
Far  other  feelings  love  hath  brought — 

Her  soul  all  flame,  her  brow  all  sadness, 
She  now  has  but  the  one  dear  thought, 

And  thinks  that  o'er,  almost  to  madness. 
Oft  doth  her  sinking  heart  recall 
His  words — "  for  my  sake  weep  for  all ;" 
And  bitterly,  as  day  on  day 

Of  rebel  carnage  fast  succeeds, 
She  weeps  a  lover  snatch'd  away 

In  every  Gheber  wretch  that  bleeds. 
There's  not  a  sabre  meets  her  eye, 

But  with  his  life-blood  seems  to  swim ; 
There 's  not  an  arrow  wings  the  sky, 

But  fancy  turns  its  point  to  him. 
No  more  she  brings  with  footstep  light 
Al  Hassan's  falchion  for  the  fight ; 
A  nd — had  he  look'd  with  clearer  sight — 
Had  not  the  mists,  that  ever  rise 
From  a  foul  spirit,  dimm'd  his  eyes — 
He  would  have  mark'd  her  shuddering  frame, 
When  from  the  field  of  blood  he  came ; 
The  faltering  speech — the  look  estranged — 
Voice,  step,  and  life,  and  beauty  changed — 
He  would  have  mark'd  all  this,  and  known 
Such  change  is  wrought  by  love  alone ! 

Ah  !  not  the  love,  that  should  have  bless'd 
So  young,  so  innocent  a  breast ; 
Not  the  pure,  open,  prosperous  love, 
That,  pledged  on  earth  and  seal'd  above, 
Grows  in  the  world's  approving  eyes, 


154 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


In  friendship's  smile  and  home's  caress, 
Collecting  all  the  heart's  sweet  ties 

Into  one  knot  of  happiness  ! 
No,  Hinda,  no — thy  fatal  flame 
Is  nursed  in  silence,  sorrow,  shame. — 

A  passion,  without  hope  or  pleasure, 
In  thy  soul's  darkness  buried  deep, 

It  lies,  like  some  ill-gotten  treasure, — 
Some  idol,  without  shrine  or  name, 
O'er  which  its  pale-eyed  votaries  keep 
Unholy  watch,  while  others 


Seven  nights  have  darken'd  Oman's  sea, 

Since  last,  beneath  the  moonlight  ray, 
She  saw  his  light  oar  rapidly 

Hurry  her  Gheber's  bark  away, — 
And  still  she  goes,  at  midnight  hour, 
To  weep  alone  in  that  high  bower, 
And  watch,  and  look  along  the  deep 
For  him  whose  smiles  first  made  her  weep. 
But  watching,  weeping,  all  was  vain, 
She  never  saw  his  bark  again. 
The  owlet's  solitary  cry, 
The   night-hawk,  flitting  darkly  by, 

And  oft  the  hateful  carrion  bird, 
Heavily  flapping  his  clogged  wing, 
Which  reek'd  with  that  day's  banqueting, 

Was  all  she  saw,  was  all  she  heard. 

'Tis  the  eighth  morn — Al  Hassan's  brow 

Is  brighten'd  with  unusual  joy — 
What  mighty  mischief  glads  him  now, 

Who  never  smiles  but  to  destroy  7 
The  sparkle  upon  Herkend's  sea, 
When  tost  at  midnight  furiously, 
Tells  not  a  wreck  and  ruin  nigh 
More  surely  than  that  smiling  eye  ! 
"  Up,  daughter  up — the  Kerna's  breath 
Has  blown  a  blast  would  waken  death, 
And  yet  thou  sleep'st — up,  child,  and  see 
This  blessed  day  for  heaven  and  me, 
A  day  more  rich  in  Pagan  blood 
Than  ever  flash'd  o'er  Oman's  flood. 
Before  another  dawn  shall  shine, 
His  head,  heart,  limbs — will  all  be  mine, 
This  very  night  his  blood  shall  steep 
These  hands  all  over  ere  I  sleep  !" 
"  His  blood  !"  she  faintly  scream'd — her  mind 
Still  singling  one  from  all  mankind — 
"  Yes — spite  of  his  ravines  and  towers, 
Hafed,  my  child,  this  night  is  ours. 
Thanks  to  all-conquering  treachery, 

Without  whose  aid  the  links  accurst, 
That  bind  these  impious  slaves,  would  be 

Too  strong  for  Alla's  self  to  burst ! 
That  rebel  fiend,  whose  blade  has  spread 
My  path  with  piles  of  Moslem  dead, 
Whose  baffling  spells  had  almost  driven 
Back  from  their  course  the  swords  of  heaven, 
This  night,  with  all  his  band  shall  know 
How  deep  an  Arab's  steel  can  go, 
When  God  and  vengeance  speed  the  blow, 
And — Prophet ! — by  that  holy  wreath 
Thou  wor'st  on  Ohod's  field  of  death, 
I  swear,  for  every  sob  that  parts 
In  anguish  from  these  heathen  hearts, 


A  gem  from  Persia's  plunder'd  mines 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  shrine  of  shrines. 
But  ha  ! — she  sinks — that  look  so  wild — 
Those  livid  lips — my  child,  my  child, 
This  life  of  blood  befits  not  thee, 
And  thou  must  back  to  Araby. 

Ne'er  had  I  risk'd  thy  timid  sex 
In  scenes  that  man  himself  might  dread, 
Had  I  not  hoped  our  every  tread 

Would  be  on  prostrate  Persian  necks — 
Curst  race,  they  offer  swords  instead  ! 
But  cheer  thee,  maid — the  wind  that  now 
Is  blowing  o'er  thy  feverish  brow, 
To-day  shall  waft  thee  from  the  shore ; 
And,  ere  a  drop  of  this  night's  gore 
Have  time  to  chill  in  yonder  towers, 
Thou  'It  see  thy  own  sweet  Arab  bowers  !" 

His  bloody  boast  was  all  too  true — 
There  lurk'd  one  wretch  among  the  few 
Whom  Hafed's  eagle  eye  could  count 
Around  him  on  that  fiery  mount. 
One  miscreant,  who  for  gold  betray'd 
The  pathway  through  the  valley's  shade, 
To  those,  high  towers  where  freedom  stood 
In  her  last  hold  of  flame  and  blood. 
Left  on  the  field  last  dreadful  night, 
When,  sallying  from  their  sacred  height, 
The  Ghebers  fought  hope's  farewell  fight, 
He  lay — but  died  not  with  the  brave ; 
That  sun,  which  should  have  gilt  his  grave, 
Saw  him  a  traitor  and  a  slave  ; — 
And,  while  the  few,  who  thence  return'd 
To  their  high  rocky  fortress,  mourn'd 
For  him  among  the  matchless  dead 
They  left  behind  on  glory's  bed, 
He  lived,  and,  in  the  face  of  morn, 
Laugh'd  them  and  faith  and  heaven  to  scorn ! 

Oh  for  a  tongue  to  curse  the  slave, 

Whose  treason,  like  a  deadly  blight, 
Comes  o'er  the  councils  of  the  brave, 

And  blasts  them  in  their  hour  of  might ! 
May  life's  unblessed  cup,  for  him, 
Be  drugg'd  with  treacheries  to  the  brim— 
With  hopes,  that  but  allure  to  fly, 

With  joys  that  vanish  while  he  sips, 
Like  Dead  Sea  fruits,  that  tempt  the  eye, 

But  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips  ! 
His  country's  curse,  his  children's  shame, 
Outcast  of  virtue,  peace,  and  fame, 
May  he,  at  last,  with  lips  of  flame 
On  the  parch'd  desert  thirsting  die, — 
While  lakes  that  shone  in  mockery  nigh 
Are  fading  off,  untouch'd.  untasted 
Like  the  once  glorious  hopes  he  blasted ! 
And,  when  from  earth  his  spirit  flies, 

Just  Prophet,  let  the  damn'd  one  dwell 
Full  in  the  sight  of  Paradise, 

Beholding  heaven  and  feeling  hell ! 

LALLA  ROOKH  had  had  a  dream  the  night  before, 
which,  in  spite  of  the  impending  fUe  of  poor  Hafed, 
made  her  heart  more  than  usually  cheerful  during  the 
morning,  and  gave  her  cheeks  all  the  freshened  anima- 
ion  of  a  flower  that  the  Bidmusk  has  just  passed  over. 
She  fancied  that  she  was  sailing  on  the  Eastern  Ocean, 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


155 


where  the  sea-gipsies  who  live  for  ever  on  the  water, 
enjoy  a  perpetual  summer  in  wandering  from  isle  to  isle, 
when  she  saw  a  small  gilded  bark  approaching  her.  It 
was  like  one  of  those  boats  which  the  Maldivian  island- 
ers annually  send  adrift,  at  the  mercy  of  winds  and  waves, 
loaded  with  perfumes,  flowers,  and  odoriferous  wood,  as 
an  offering  to  the  Spirit  whom  they  call  King  of  the  Sea. 
At  first,  this  little  bark  appeared  to  be  empty,  but  on 

coming  nearer 

She  had  proceeded  thus  far  in  relating  the  dream  to  her 
ladies,  when  Feramorz  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  pa- 
vilion. In  his  presence,  of  course,  every  thing  else  was 
forgotten,  and  the  continuance  of  the  story  was  instantly 
requested  by  all.  Fresh  wood  of  aloes  was  set  to  burn 
in  the  cassolets ;— the  violet  sherbets  were  hastily 
handed  round,  and,  after  a  short  prelude  on  his  lute,  in 
the  pathetic  measure  of  Nava,  which  is  always  used  to 
express  the  lamentations  of  absent  lovers,  the  poet  thus 
continued : — 


THE  day  is  lowering — stilly  black 
Sleeps  the  grim  wave,  while  heaven's  rack, 
Dispersed  and  wild,  'twixt  earth  and  sky 
Hangs  like  a  shatter'd  canopy  ! 
There 's  not  a  cloud  in  that  blue  plain, 

But  tells  of  storm  to  come  or  past; — 
Here,  flying  loosely  as  the  mane 

Of  a  young  war-horse  in  the  blast ; — 
There,  roll'd  in  masses  dark  and  swelling, 
As  proud  to  be  the  thunder's  dwelling ! 
While  some,  already  burst  and  riven, 
Seem  melting  down  the  verge  of  heaven  ; 
As  though  the  infant  storm  had  rent 

The  mighty  womb  that  gave  him  birth, 
And,  having  swept  the  firmament, 

Was  now  in  fierce  career  for  earth. 
On  earth,  'twas  yet  all  calm  around, 
A  pulseless  silence,  dread,  profound, 
More  awful  than  the  tempest's  sound. 
The  diver  steer'd  for  Ornius'  bowers, 
And  moor'd  his  skiff  till  calmer  hours  ; 
The  sea-birds,  with  portentous  screech, 
Flew  fast  to  land : — upon  the  beach 
The  pilot  oft  had  paused,  with  glance 
Turn'd  upward  to  that  wild  expanse ; 
And  all  was  boding,  drear  and  dark 
As  her  own  soul,  when  Hinda's  bark 
Went  slowly  from  the  Persian  shore. — 
No  music  timed  her  parting  oar, 
Nor  friends,  upon  the  lessening  strand 
Linger'd,  to  wave  the  unseen  hand, 
Or  speak  the  farewell,  heard  no  more. 
But  lone,  unheeded,  from  the  bay 
The  vessel  takes  its  mournful  way, 
Like  some  ill-destined  bark  that  steers 
In  silence  through  the  Gate  of  Tears. 

And  where  was  stern  Al  Hassan  then  1 
Could  not  that  saintly  scourge  of  men 
From  bloodshed  and  devotion  spare 
One  minute  for  a  farewell  there  1 
No — close  within,  in  changeful  fits 
Of  cursing  and  of  prayer,  he  sits 
In  savage  loneliness  to  brood 
Upon  the  coming  night  of  blood, 

With  that  keen,  second-scent  of  death, 
By  which  the  vulture  snuffs  his  food 

In  the  still  warm  and  living  breath  ! 


While  o'er  the  wave  his  weeping  daughter, 

Is  wafted  from  the  scenes  of  slaughter, 

As  a  young  bird  of  Babylon, 

Let  loose  to  tell  of  victory  won, 

Flies  home,  with  wing,  ah  !  not  unstain'd 

By  the  red  hands  that  held  her  chain'd. 

And  does  the  long-left  home  she  seeks 

Light  up  no  gladness  on  her  cheeks  1 

The  flowers  she  nursed — the  well-known  groves, 

WThere  oft  in  dreams  her  spirit  roves — 

Once  more  to  see  her  dear  gazelles 

Come  bounding  with  their  silver  bells ; 

Her  birds'  new  plumage  to  behold, 

And  the  gay,  gleaming  fishes  count, 
She  left,  all  filletted  with  gold, 

Shooting  around  their  jasper  fount. — 
Her  little  garden  mosque  to  see, 

And  once  again,  at  evening  hour, 
To  tell  her  ruby  rosary 

In  her  own  sweet  acacia  bower, 
Can  these  delights,  that  wait  her  now, 
Call  up  no  sunshine  on  her  brow  1 
No — silent,  from  her  train  apart, — 
As  if  e'en  now  she  felt  at  heart 
The  chill  of  her  approaching  doom, — 
She  sits,  all  lovely  in  her  gloom, 
Asa  pale  angel  of  the  grave  ; 
And  o'er  the  wide,  tempestuous  wave, 
Looks,  with  a  shudder,  to  those  towers, 
Where,  in  a  few  short  awful  hours, 
Blood,  blood,  in  steaming  tides  shall  run, 
Foul  incense  for  to-morrow's  sun  ! 
"  Where  art  thou,  glorious  stranger  !  thou, 
So  loved,  so  lost,  where  art  thou  now  1 
Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate'er 
The  unhallow'd  name  thou  'rt  doom'd  to  bear, 
Still  glorious — still  to  this  fond  heart 
Dear  as  its  blood,  whate'er  thou  art ! 
Yes— Alia,  dreadful  Alia  !  yes— 
If  there  be  wrong,  be  crime  in  this, 
Let  the  black  waves  that  round  us  roll, 
Whelm  me  this  instant,  ere  my  soul, 
Forgetting  faith,  home,  father,  all- — 
Before  its  earthly  idol  fall, 
Nor  worship  e'en  thyself  above  him — 
For  oh  !  so  wildly  do  I  love  him, 
Thy  paradise  itself  were  dim 
And  joyless,  if  not  shared  with  him  !" 

Her  hands  were  clasp'd — her  eyes  upturn'd, 
Dropping  their  tears  like  moonlight  rain  ; 

And,  though  her  lip,  fond  raver  !  burn'd 
With  words  of  passion,  bold,  profane, 

Yet  was  there  light  around  her  brow, 

A  holiness  in  those  dark  eyes,  [now, — 

Which    show'd — though    wandering    earthward 
Her  spirit's  home  was  in  the  skies. 

Yes — for  a  spirit,  pure  as  hers, 

Is  always  pure,  e'en  while  it  errs ; 

As  sunshine,  broken  in  the  rill, 

Though  turn'd  astray,  is  sunshine  still! 

So  wholly  had  her  mind  forgot 
All  thoughts  but  one,  she  heeded  not 
The  rising  storm — the  wave  that  cast 
A  moment's  midnight,  as  it  pass'd  ; 


156 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


Nor  heard  the  frequent  shout,  the  tread 

Of  gathering  tumult  o'er  her  head — 

Clash'd  swords,  and  tongues  that  seem'd  to  vie 

With  the  rude  riot  of  the  sky. 

But  hark! — that  war-whoop  on  the  deck — 

That  crash,  as  if  each  engine  there, 
Mast,  sails,  and  all,  were  gone  to  wreck, 

Mid  yells  and  stampings  of  despair  ! 
Merciful  heav'n  !  what  can  it  be  1 
'T  is  not  the  storm,  though  fearfully 
The  ship  has  shudder'd  as  she  rode 
O'er  mountain  waves — "  Forgive  me,  God  ! 
Forgive  me" — shriek'd  the  maid  and  knelt, 
Trembling  all  over — for  she  felt, 
As  if  her  judgment  hour  was  near; 
While  crouching  round,  half  dead  with  fear, 
Her  handmaids  clung,  nor  breath'd,  nor  stirr'd — 
When,  hark  ! — a  second  crash — a  third — 
And  now,  as  if  a  bolt  of  thunder 
Had  riv'n  the  labouring  planks  asunder, 
The  deck  falls  in — what  horrors  then  ! 
Blood,  waves,  and  tackle,  swords  and  men 
Come  mix'd  together  through  the  chasm ; — 
Some  wretches  in  their  dying  spasm 
Still  righting  on — and  some  that  call 
«  For  God  and  Iran  !"  as  they  fall ! 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  turn'd  away 
The  perils  of  the  infuriate  fray, 
And  snatch'd  her,  breathless,  from  beneath 
This  wilderment  of  wreck  and  death  1 
She  knew  not — for  a  faintness  came 
Chill  o'er  her,  and  her  sinking  frame, 
Amid  the  ruins  of  that  hour, 
Lay,  like  a  pale  and  scorched  flower, 
Beneath  the  red  volcano's  shower ! 
But  oh  !  the  sights  and  sounds  of  dread 
That  shoi-k'd  her,  ere  her  senses  fled  ! 
The  yawning  deck — the  crowd  that  strove 
Upon  the  tottering  planks  above — 
The  sail,  whose  fragments,  shivering  o'er 
The  smugglers'  heads,  all  dash'd  with  gore, 
Flutter'd  like  bloody  flags — the  clash 
Of  sabres,  and  the  lightning's  flash 
Upon  their  blades,  high  toss'd  about 
Like  meteor  brands — as  if  throughout 

The  elements  one  fury  ran, 
One  general  rage,  that  left  a  doubt 

Which  was  the  fiercer,  heaven  or  man  ! 

Once  too — but  no — it  could  not  be — 

'Twas  fancy  all — yet  once  she  thought, 
While  yet  her  fading  eyes  could  see, 

High  on  the  ruin'd  deck  she  caught 
A  glimpse  of  that  unearthly  form, 

That  glory  of  her  soul— e'en  then. 
Amid  the  whirl  of  wreck  and  storm, 

Shining  above  his  fellow  men, 
As,  on  some  black  and  troublous  night, 
The  Star  of  Egypt,  whose  proud  light, 
Never  hath  beam'd  on  those  who  rest 
In  the  White  Islands  of  the  West, 
Burns  through  the  storm  with  looks  of  flame 
That  put  heaven's  cloudier  eyes  to  shame ! 
But  no — 'twas  but  the  minute's  dream^ 
A  fantasy — and  ere  the  scream 


Had  halfway  pass'd  her  pallid  lips, 
A  death-like  swoon,  a  chill  eclipse 
Of  soul  and  sense  its  darkness  spread 
Around  her,  and  she  sunk,  as  dead  ! 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  comes  on 
The  stilly  hour,  when  storms  are  gone  ; 
When  warring  winds  have  died  away, 
And  clouds,  beneath  the  glancing  ray, 
Melt  off,  and  leave  the  land  and  sea 
Sleeping  in  bright  tranquillity, — 
Fresh  as  if  day  again  were  born, 
Again  upon  the  lap  of  morn  ! 
When  the  light  blossoms,  rudely  torn 
And  scatter'd  at  the  whirlwind's  will, 
Hang  floating  in  the  pure  air  still, 
Filling  it  all  with  precious  balm, 
In  gratitude  for  this  sweet  calm  ; 
And  every  drop  the  thunder-showers 
Have  left  upon  the  grass  and  flowers 
Sparkles,  as  'twere  that  lightning-gem 
Whose  liquid  flame  is  born  of  them  ! 

When,  'stead  of  one  unchanging  breeze, 
There  blow  a  thousand  gentle  airs, 
And  each  a  different  perfume  bears,— 

As  if  the  loveliest  plants  and  trees 
Had  vassal  breezes  of  their  own 
To  watch  and  wait  on  them  alone, 
And  waft  no  other  breath  than  theirs  ! 
When  the  blue  waters  rise  and  fall, 
In  sleepy  sunshine  mantling  all ; 
And  e'en  that  swell  the  tempest  leaves 
Is  like  the  full  and  silent  heaves 
Of  lovers'  hearts,  when  newly  blest, 
Too  newly  to  be  quite  at  rest ! 

Such  was  the  golden  hour  that  broke 
Upon  the  world  when  Hinda  woke 
From  her  long  trance,  and  heard  around 
No  motion  but  the  water's  sound 
Rippling  against  the  vessel's  side, 
As -slow  it  mounted  o'er  the  tide. — 
But  where  is  she  1 — her  eyes  are  dark, 
Are  wilder'd  still — is  this  the  bark, 
The  same,  that  from  Harmozia's  bay 
Bore  her  at  morn — whose  bloody  way 
The  sea-dog  track'd  1 — no — strange  and  new 
Is  all  that  meets  her  wondering  view. 
Upon  a  galliot's  deck  she  lies, 

Beneath  no  rich  pavilion's  shade, 
No  plumes  to  fan  her  sleeping  eyes, 

Nor  jasmine  on  her  pillow  laid. 
But  the  rude  litter,  roughly  spread 
With  war-cloaks,  is  her  homely  bed, 
And  shawl  and  sash,  on  javelins  hung, 
For  awning  o'er  her  head  are  flung, 
Shuddering  she  look'd  around — there  lay 

A  group  of  warriors  in  the  sun, 
Resting  their  limbs,  as  for  that  day 

Their  ministry  of  death  were  done. 
Some  gazing  on  the  drowsy  sea, 
Lost  in  unconscious  reverie  ; 
And  some,  who  seem'd  but  ill  to  brook 
That  sluggish  calm,  with  many  a  look, 
To  the  slack  sail  impatient  cast, 
As  loose  it  flagg'd  around  the  mast. 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


157 


Blest  Alia !  who  shall  save  her  now  1 

There's  not  in  all  that  warrior-band 
One  Arab  sword,  one  turbari'd  brow 

From  her  own  faithful  Moslem  land. 
Their  garb — the  leathern  belt  that  wraps 

Each  yellow  vest — that  rebel  hue — 
The  Tartar  fleece  upon  their  caps — 

Yes — yes — her  fears  are  all  too  true, 
And  Heaven  hath,  in  this  dreadful  hour, 
Abandon'd  her  to  Hafed's  power  ; — 
Hafed,  the  Gheber  ! — at  the  thought 

Her  very  heart's  blood  chills  within  ; 
He,  whom  her  soul  was  hourly  taught 

To  loathe,  as  some  foul  fiend  of  sin, 
Some  minister,  whom  hell  had  sent 
To  spread  its  blast,  where'er  he  went, 
And  fling,  as  o'er  our  earth  he  trod, 
His  shadow  betwixt  man  and  God  ! 
And  she  is  now  his  captive — thrown 
In  his  fierce  hands,  alive,  alone ; 
His  the  infuriate  band  she  sees, 
All  infidels — all  enemies  ! 
What  was  the  daring  hope  that  then 
Cross'd  her  like  lightning,  as  again, 
With  boldness  that  despair  had  lent, 

She  darted  through  that  armed  crowd 
A  look  so  searching,  so  intent, 

That  e'en  the  sternest  warrior  bow'd, 
Abash'd,  when  he  her  glances  caught, 
As  if  he  guess'd  whose  form  they  sought, 
But  no — she  sees  him  not — 'tis  gone, — 
The  vision,  that  before  her  shone 
Through  all  the  maze  of  blood  and  storm, 
Is  fled — 'twas  but  a  phantom  form — 
One  of  those  passing,  rainbow  dreams, 
Half-light,  half-shade,  which  fancy's  beams, 
Paint  on  the  fleeting  mists  that  roll 
In  trance  or  slumber  round  the  soul ! 

But  now  the  bark,  with  livelier  bound, 

Scales  the  blue  wave — the  crew's  in  motion- 

The  oars  are  out,  and  with  light  sound 
Break  the  bright  mirror  of  the  ocean, 

Scattering  its  brilliant  fragments  round. 

And  now  she  sees — with  horror  sees, 

Their  course  is  toward  that  mountain  hold,— 

Those  towers,  that  make  her  life-blood  freeze, 

Where  Mecca's  godless  enemies 

Lie,  like  beleaguer'd  scorpions,  roll'd 
In  their  last  deadly,  venomous  fold  ! 

Amid  the  illumined  land  and  flood, 

Sunless  that  mighty  mountain  stood; 

Save  where,  above  its  awful  head, 

There  shone  a  flaming  cloud,  blood-red, 

As  'twere  the  flag  of  destiny 

Hung  out  to  mark  where  death  would  be  ! 

Had  her  bevvilder'd  mind  the  power 

Of  thought  in  this  terrific  hour, 

She  well  might  marvel  where  or  how 

Man's  foot  could  scale  that  mountain's  brow, 

Since  ne'er  had  Arab  heard  or  known 

Of  path  but  through  the  glen  alone, 

But  every  thought  wis  lost  in  fear, 

When,  as  their  bounding  bark  drew  near 


The  craggy  base,  she  felt  the  waves, 
Hurry  them  toward  those  dismal  cavea 
That  from  the  deep  in  windings  pass, 
Beneath  the  mount's  volcanic  mass  : 
And  loud  a  voice  on  deck  commands 
To  lower  the  mast  and  light  the  brands ! — 
Instantly  o'er  the  dashing  tide 
Within  a  cavern's  mouth  they  glide, 
Gloomy  as  that  eternal  porch, 

Through  which  departed  spirits  go ; — 
Not  e'en  the  flare  of  brand  and  torch 

Its  flickering  light  could  further  throw, 

Than  the  thick  flood  that  boil'd  below. 
Silent  they  floated — as  if  each 
Sat  breathless,  and  too  awed  for  speech 
In  that  dark  chasm,  where  even  sound 
Seem'd  dark, — so  sullenly  around, 
The  goblin  echoes  of  the  cave 
Mutter'd  it  o'er  the  long  black  wave, 
As  'twere  some  secret  of  the  grave  ! 
But  soft — they  pause — the  current  turns 

Beneath  them  from  its  onward  track  ; — 
Some  mighty,  unseen  barrier  spurns 

The  vexed  tide,  all  foaming,  back, 
And  scarce  the  oar's  redoubled  force 
Can.  stem  the  eddy's  whirling  course ; 
When,  hark ! — some  desperate  foot  has  sprung 
Among  the  rocks — the  chain  is  flung — 
The  oars  are  up — the  grapple  clings, 
And  the  toss'd  bark  in  moorings  swings. 

Just  then  a  day-beam,  through  the  shade, 

Broke  tremulous — but,  ere  the  maid 

Can  see  from  whence  the  brightness  steals, 

Upon  her  brow  she  shuddering  feels 

A  viewless  hand,  that  promptly  ties 

A  bandage  round  her  burning  eyes  ; 

While  the  rude  litter  where  she  lies, 

Uplifted  by  the  warrior  throng, 

O'er  the  steep  rocks  is  borne  along. 

Blest  power  of  sunshine  !  genial  day, 

What  balm,  what  life  is  in  thy  ray  ! 

To  feel  thee  is  such  real  bliss, 

That  had  the  world  no  joy  but  this, 

To  sit  in  sunshine  calm  and  sweet, — 

It  were  a  world  too  exquisite 

For  man  to  leave  it  for  the  gloom, 

The  deep,  cold  shadow  of  the  tomb! 

E'en  Hinda,  though  she  saw  not  where 

Or  whither  wound  the  perilous  road, 
Yet  knew  by  that  awakening  air, 

Which  suddenly  around  her  glow'd, 
That  they  had  risen  from  darkness  then, 
And  breathed  the  sunny  world  again  ! 

But  soon  this  balmy  freshness  fled : 

For  now  the  steepy  labyrinth  led 

Through  damp  and  gloom — mid  crash  of  boughs, 

And  fall  of  loosen'd  crags  that  rouse 

The  leopard  from  his  hungry  sleep, 

Who,  starting,  thinks  each  crag  a  prey, 
And  long  is  heard  from  steep  to  steep, 

Chasing  them  down  their  thundering  way. 
The  jackal's  cry — the  distant  moan 
Of  the  hyaena,  fierce  and  lone  ; — 
And  that  eternal,  saddening  sound 
O 


158 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


Of  torrents  in  the  glen  beneath, 
As  'twere  the  ever-dark  profound 

That  rolls  beneath  the  Bridge  of  Death  ! 
All,  all  is  fearful — e'en  to  see, 

To  gaze  on  those  terrific  things 
She  now  but  blindly  hears,  would  be 

Relief  to  her  imaginings  ! 
Since  never  yet  was  shape  so  dread, 

But  fancy,  thus  in  darkness  thrown, 
And  by  such  sounds  of  horror  fed, 

Could  frame  more  dreadful  of  her  own. 
But  does  she  dream  1  has  fear  again 
Perplex'd  the  workings  of  her  brain, 
Or  did  a  voice,  all  music,  then 
Come  from  the  gloom,  low  whispering  near — 
"Tremble  not,  love,  thy  Gheber's  here  !" 
She  does  not  dream — all  sense — all  ear, 
She  drinks  the  words,  "Thy  Gheber's  here." 
'T  was  his  own  voice — she  could  not  err — 
Throughout  the  breathing  world's  extent 
There  was  but  one  such  voice  for  her, 

So  kind,  so  soft,  so  eloquent ! 
Oh  !  sooner  shall  the  rose  of  May 

Mistake  her  own  sweet  nightingale, 
And  to  some  meaner  minstrel's  lay 

Open  her  bosom's  glowing  veil, 
Than  love  shall  ever  doubt  a  tone, 
A  breath  of  the  beloved  one  ! 
Though  blest,  mid  all  her  ills,  to  think 

She  has  that  one  beloved  near, 
Whose  smile,  though  met  on  ruin's  brink, 
Hath  power  to  make  e'en  ruin  dear, — 
Yet  soon  this  gleam  of  rapture,  crost 
By  fears  for  him,  is  chill'd  and  lost. 
How  shall  the  ruthless  Hafed  brook 
That  one  of  Gheber  blood  should  look, 
With  aught  but  curses  in  his  eye, 
On  her — a  maid  of  Araby — 
A  Moslem  maid — the  child  of  him, 

Whose  bloody  banner's  dire  success 
Hath  left  their  altars  cold  and  dim, 
And  their  fair  land  a  wilderness ! 
And,  worse  than  all,  that  night  of  blood 

Which  comes  so  fast — oh  !  who  shall  stay 
The  sword,  that  once  hath  tasted  food 
Of  Persian  hearts,  or  turn  its  way  1 
What  arm  shall  then  the  victim  cover, 
Or  from  her  father  shield  her  lover  1 

«  Save  him,  my  God  !"  she  inly  cries — 
"  Save  him  this  night — and  if  thine  eyes 

Have  ever  welcomed  with  delight 
The  sinner's  tears,  the  sacrifice 

Of  sinners'  hearts — guard  him  this  night, 
And  here,  before  thy  throne,  I  swear 
From  my  heart's  inmost  core  to  tear 

Love,  hope,  remembrance,  though  they  oe 
Link'd  with  each  quivering  life-string  there, 

And  give  it  bleeding  all  to  Thee  ! 
Let  him  but  live,  the  burning  tear, 
The  sighs,  so  sinful,  yet  so  dear, 
Which  have  been  all  too  much  his  own, 
Shall  from  this  hour  be  Heaven's  alone. 
Youth  pass'd  in  penitence,  and  age 
In  long  and  painful  pilgrimage, 


Shall  leave  no  traces  of  the  flame 
That  wastes  me  now — nor  shall  his  name 
3'er  bless  my  lips,  but  when  I  pray 
?or  his  dear  spirit,  that  away 

asting  from  its  angelic  ray 
The  eclipse  of  earth,  he  too  may  shine 
•ledeem'd,  all  glorious  and  all  Thine  ! 
Think — think  what  victory  to  win 
One  radiant  soul  like  his  from  sin  ; — 
3ne  wandering  star  of  virtue  back 
To  its  own  native,  heaven-ward  track ! 

et  him  but  live,  and  both  are  Thine, 
Together  Thine — for,  blest  or  crost, 
Living  or  dead,  his  doom  is  mine  ; 
And  if  he  perish,  both  are  lost !" 


THE  next  evenin?  Lalla  Rookh  was  entreated  by  her 
adies  to  continue  the  relation  of  her  wonderful  dream  ; 
jut  the  fearful  interest  that  him?  round  the  fate  of  Hinda 
and  her  lover  had  completely  removed  every  trace  of  it 
from  her  mind ;— much  to  the  disappointment  of  a  fair 
seer  or  two  in  her  train,  who  prided  Themselves  on  their 
skill  in  interpreting  visions,  and  who  had  already  re- 
marked, as  an  unlucky  omen,  that  the  princess,  on  the 
very  morning  after  the  dream,  had  worn  a  silk  dyed  with 
the  blossoms  of  the  sorrowful  tree,  Nilica. 

Fadladeen,  whose  wrath  had  more  than  once  broken 
out  during  the  recital  of  some  parts  of  this  most  heterodox 
poem,  seemed  at  length  to  have  made  up  his  mind  to  the 
infliction  ;  and  took  his  seat  for  the  evening  with  all  the 
patience  of  a  martyr,  while  the  poet  continued  his  pro- 
fane and  seditious  story  thus  : — 

To  tearless  eyes  and  hearts  at  ease, 
The  leafy  shores  and  sun-bright  seas, 
That  lay  beneath  that  mountain's  height, 
Had  been  a  fair,  enchanting  sight. 
'T  was  one  of  those  ambrosial  eves, 
A  day  of  storm  so  often  leaves 
At  its  calm  setting — when  the  west 
Opens  her  golden  bowers  of  rest, 
And  a  moist  radiance  from  the  skies 
Shoots  trembling  down,  as  from  the  eyes 
Of  some  meek  penitent,  whose  last, 
Bright  hours  atone  for  dark  ones  past, 
And  whose  sweet  tears  o'er  wrong  forgiven, 
Shine,  as  they  fall,  with  light  from  heaven  ! 

'Twas  stillness  all — the  winds  that  late 

Had  rush'd  through  Kerman's  almond  groves, 
And  shaken  from  her  bowers  of  date, 

That  cooling  feast  the  traveller  loves, 
Now,  lull'd  to  languor,  scarcely  curl 

The  Green  Sea  wave,  whose  waters  gleam 
Limpid,  as  if  her  mines  of  pearl 

Were  melted  all  to  form  the  stream. 
And  her  fair  islets,  small  and  bright, 

With  their  green  shores  reflected  there, 
Look  like  those  Peri  isles  of  light, 

That  hang  by  spell-work  in  the  air. 
But  vainly  did  those  glories  burst 
On  Hinda's  dazzled  eyes,  when  first 
The  bandage  from  her  brow  was  taken, 
And  pale  and  awed  as  those  who  waken 
In  their  dark  tombs — when,  scowling  near, 
The  Searchers  of  the  Grave  appear, — 
She  shuddering  turn'J  to  read  her  fate 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


159 


In  the  fierce  eyes  that  flash'd  around  ; 
And  saw  those  towers,  all  desolate, 

That  o'er  her  head  terrific  frown'd, 
As  if  defying  e'en  the  smile 
Of  that  soft  heaven  to  gild  their  pile. 
In  vain,  with  mingled  hope  and  fear, 
She  looks  for  him  whose  voice  so  dear 
Had  come,  like  music,  to  her  ear — 
Strange,  mocking  dream  !  again  'tis  fled. 
And  oh  !  the  shoots,  the  pangs  of  dread 
That  through  her  inmost  bosom  run, 

When  voices  from  without  proclaim 
"  Hafed,  the  chief!" — and,  one  by  one, 

The  warriors  shout  that  fearful  name  ! 
He  comas — the  rock  resounds  his  tread — 
How  shall  she  dare  to  lift  her  head, 
Or  meet  those  eyes,  whose  scorching  glare 
Not  Yemen's  boldest  sons  can  bear  ? 
In  whose  red  beam,  the  Moslem  tells, 
Such  rank  and  deadly  lustre  dwells, 
As  in  those  hellish  fires  that  light 
The  mandrake's  charnel  leaves  at  night ! 
How  shall  she  bear  that  voice's  tone, 
At  whose  loud  battle-cry  alone 
Whole  squadrons  oft  in  panic  ran, 
Scatter'd,  like  some  vast  caravan, 
When,  stretch'd  at  evening,  round  the  well, 
They  hear  the  thirsting  tiger's  yell  1 

Breathless  she  stands,  with  eyes  cast  down, 
Shrinking  beneath  the  fiery  frown, 
Which,  fancy  tells  her,  from  that  brow 
Is  flashing  o'er  her  fiercely  now ; 
And  shuddering,  as  she  hears  the  tread 

Of  his  retiring  warrior  band. — 
Never  was  pause  so  full  of  dread  ; 

Till  Hafed,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Took  hers,  and,  leaning  o'er  her,  said, 
"  Hinda  !" — that  word  was  all  he  spoke, 
And  'twas  enough — the  shriek  that  broke 

From  her  full  bosom  told  the  rest. — 
Panting  with  terror,  joy,  surprise, 
The  maid  but  lifts  her  wondering  eyes 

To  hide  them  on  her  Gheber's  breast ! 
'Tis  he,  'tis  he— the  man  of  blood, 
The  fellest  of  the  fire-fiend's  brood, 
Hafed,  the  demon  of  the  fight, 
Whose  voice  unnerves,  whose  glances  blight,- 
Is  her  own  loved  Gheber,  mild 
And  glorious  as  when  first  he  smiled 
In  her  lone  tower,  and  left  such  beams 
Of  his  pure  eye  to  light  her  dreams, 
That  she  believed  her  bower  had  given 
Rest  to  some  wanderer  from  heaven  ! 

Moments  there  are,  and  this  was  one, 
Snatch'd  like  a  minute's  gleam  of  sun 
Amid  the  black  simoom's  eclipse — 

Or  like  those  verdant  spots  that  bloom 
Around  the  crater's  burning  lips, 

Sweetening  the  very  edge  of  doom  ! 
The  past— the  future— all  that  fate 
Can  bring  of  dark  or  desperate 
Around  such  hours,  but  makes  them  cast 
In  tenser  radiance  while  they  last ! 


E'en  he,  this  youth — though  dimm'd  and  gone 

Each  star  of  hope  that  cheer'd  him  on — 

His  glories  lost — his  cause  betray'd — 

Iran,  his  dear-loved  country,  made 

A  land  of  carcasses  and  slaves, 

One  dreary  waste  of  chains  and  graves ! 

Himself  but  lingering,  dead  at  heart, 

To  see  the  last,  long-struggling  breath 
Of  liberty's  great  soul  depart, 

Then  lay  him  down,  and  share  her  death — 
E'en  he,  so  sunk  in  wretchedness, 

With  doom  still  darker  gathering  o'er  him, 
Yet,  in  this  moment's  pure  caress, 

In  the  mild  eyes  that  shone  before  him, 
Beaming  that  blest  assurance,  worth 
All  other  transports  known  on  earth, 
That  he  was  loved — well,  warmly  loved — 
Oh  !  in  this  precious  hour  he  proved 
How  deep,  how  thorough-felt  the  glow 
Of  rapture,  kindling  out  of  wo  ; — 
How  exquisite  one  single  drop 
Of  bliss,  thus  sparkling  to  the  top 
Of  misery's  cup — how  keenly  quaff'd, 
Though  death  must  follow  on  the  draught ! 
She  too,  while  gazing  on  those  eyes 

That  sink  into  her  soul  so  deep, 
Forgets  all  fears,  all  miseYies, 

Or  feels  them  like  the  wretch  in  sleep, 
Whom  fancy  cheats  into  a  smile, 
Who  dreams  of  joy,  and  sobs  the  while  ! 

The  mighty  ruins  where  they  stood, 

Upon  the  mount's  high,  rocky  verge, 
Lay  open  towards  the  ocean  flood, 

Where  lightly  o'er  the  illumined  surge 
Many  a  fair  bark,  that,  all  the  day, 
Had  lurk'd  in  sheltering  creek  or  bay, 
Now  bounded  on  and  gave  their  sails, 
Yet  dripping,  to  the  evening  gales ; 
Like  eagles,  when  the  storm  is  done, 
Spreading  their  wet  wings  in  the  sun. 
The  beauteous  clouds,  though  daylight's  star 
Had  sunk  behind  the  hills  of  Lar, 
Were  still  with  lingering  glories  bright, — 
As  if  to  grace  the  gorgeous  west, 

The  spirit  of  departing  light 
That  eve  had  left  its  sunny  vest 

Behind  him,  ere  he  wing'd  his  flight. 
Never  was  scene  so  form'd  for  love  ! 
Beneath  them  waves  of  crystal  move 
In  silent  swell — heaven  glows  above, 
And  their  pure  hearts,  to  transport  given, 
Swell  like  the  wave,  and  glow  like  heaven. 

But  ah  !  too  soon  that  dream  is  past — 

Again,  again  her  fear  returns; — 
Night,  dreadful  night,  is  gathering  fast, 

More  faintly  the  horizon  burns, 
And  every  rosy  tint  that  lay 
On  the  smooth  sea  hath  died  away. 
Hastily  to  the  darkening  skies 
A  glance  she  casts — then  wildly  cries, 
At  night,  he  said — and,  look,  'tis  near — 

Fly,  fly — if  yet  thou  lovest  me,  fly — 
Soon  will  his  murderous  band  be  here, 

And  I  shall  see  thee  bleed  and  die. — 


160 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


Hush  ! — heard'st  thou  not  the  tramp  of  men 
Sounding  from  yonder  fearful  glen  1 — 
Perhaps  e'en  now  they  climb  the  wood — 

Fly,  fly — though  still  the  west  is  bright, 
He  '11  come — oh  !  yes — he  wants  thy  blood— 

I  know  him — he'll  not  wait  for  night!" 

In  terrors  e'en  to  agony 

She  clings  around  the  wondering  chief;— 
"  Alas,  poor  wilder'd  maid  !  to  me 

Thou  owest  this  raving  trance  of  grief. 
Lost  as  I  am,  nought  ever  grew 
Beneath  my  shade  but  perish'd  too — 
My  doom  is  like  the  Dead  Sea  air, 
And  nothing  lives  that  enters  there  ! 
Why  were  our  barks  together  driven 
Beneath  this  morning's  furious  heaven  ? 
Why,  when  I  saw  the  prize  that  chance 

Had  thrown  into  my  desperate  arms,— 
When,  casting  but  a  single  glance 

Upon  thy  pale  and  prostrate  charms, 
I  vow'd  (though  watching  viewless  o'er 

Thy  safety  through  that  hour's  alarms) 
To  meet  the  unmanning  sight  no  more- 
Why  have  I  broke  that  heart-wrung  vow  ! 
Why  weakly,  madly  met  thee  now  1 — 
Start  not — that  noise  is  but  the  shock 

Of  torrents  through  yon  valley  hurl'd— 
Dread  nothing  here — upon  this  rock 

We  stand  above  the  jarring  world, 
Alike  beyond  its  hope — its  dread — 
In  gloomy  safety,  like  the  dead  ! 
Or,  could  e'en  earth  and  hell  unite 
In  league  to  storm  this  sacred  height, 
Fear  nothing  thou — myself,  to-night, 
And  each  o'erlooking  stars  that  dwells 
Near  God,  will  be  thy  sentinels ; 
And,  ere  to-morrow's  dawn  shall  glow, 

Back  to  thy  sire " 

"  To-morrow  ! — no" — 
The  maiden  screarn'd — "  thou  'It  never  see 
To-morrow's  sun — death,  death  will  be 
The  night-cry  through  each  reeking  tower, 
Unless  we  fly,  ay,  fly  this  hour ! 
Thou  art  betray'd — some  wretch  who  knew 
That  dreadful  glen's  mysterious  clew — 
Nay,  doubt  not — by  yon  stars  'tis  true— 
Hath  sold  thee  to  my  vengeful  sire  ; 
This  morning,  with  that  smile  so  dire 
He  wears  in  joy,  he  told  me  all, 
And  stamp'd  in  triumph  through  our  hall, 
As  though  thy  heart  already  beat 
Its  last  life-throb  beneath  his  feet ! 
Good  heaven,  how  little  dream'd  I  then 

His  victim  was  my  own  loved  youth  ! — 
Fly — send — let  some  one  watch  the  glen — 

By  all  my  hopes  of  heaven  'tis  truth  !" 

Oh  !  colder  than  the  wind  that  freezes 
Founts,  that  but  now  in  sunshine  play'd, 

Is  that  congealing  pang  which  seizes 
The  trusting  bosom,  when  betray'd. 

He  felt  it — deeply  felt — and  stood, 

As  if  ths  tale  had  frozen  his  blood, 
So  amazed  and  motionless  was  he  ;— . 

Like  one  whom  sudden  spells  enchant, 


Or  some  mute,  marble  habitant 

Of  the  still  halls  of  Ishmonie  ! 
But  soon  the  painful  chill  was  o'er, 
And  his  great  soul,  herself  once  more, 
Look'd  from  his  brow  in  all  the  rays 
Of  her  best,  happiest,  grandest  days  ! 
Never,  in  moment  most  elate, 

Did  that  high  spirit  loftier  rise ;— - 
While  bright,  serene,  determinate, 

His  looks  are  lifted  to  the  skies, 
As  if  the  signal  lights  of  fate 

Were  shining  in  those  awful  eyes  ! 
'T  is  come — his  hour  of  martyrdom 
In  Iran's  sacred  cause  is  come  ; 
And  though  his  life  hath  pass'd  away 
Like  lightning  on  a  stormy  day, 
Yet  shall  his  death-hour  leave  a  track 

Of  glory,  permanent  and  bright, 
To  which  the  brave  of  aftertimes, 
The  suffering  brave  shall  long  look  back 

With  proud  regret, — and  by  its  light, 

Watch  through  the  hours  of  slavery's  night 
For  vengeance  on  the  oppressor's  crimes  ! 
This  rock,  his  monument  aloft, 

Shall  speak  the  tale  to  many  an  age ; 
And  hither  bards  and  heroes  oft 

Shall  come  in  secret  pilgrimage, 
And  bring  their  warrior  sons,  and  tell 
The  wondering  boys  where  Hafed  fell, 
And  swear  them  on  those  lone  remains 
Of  their  lost  country's  ancient  fanes, 
Never — while  breath  of  life  shall  live 
Within  them — never  to  forgive 
The  accursed  race,  whose  ruthless  chain 
Hath  left  on  Iran's  neck  a  stain, 
Blood,  blood  alone  can  cleanse  again  ! 

Such  are  the  swelling  thoughts  that  now 
Enthrone  themselves  on  Hafed's  brow  : 
And  ne'er  did  Saint  of  Issa  gaze 

On  the  red  wreath,  for  martyrs  twined, 
More  proudly  than  the  youth  surveys 

That  pile,  which  through  the  gloom  behind, 
Half-lighted  by  the  altar's  fire, 
Glimmers, — his  destined  funeral  pyre  ! 
Heap'd  by  his  own,  his  comrade's  hands, 

Of  every  wood  of  odorous  breath, 
There,  by  the  Fire-god's  shrine  it  stands, 

Ready  to  fold  in  radiant  death 
The  few  still  left  of  those  who  swore 
To  perish  there,  when  hope  was  o'er—- 
The few,  to  whom  that  couch  of  flame, 
Which  rescues  them  from  bonds  and  shame, 
Is  sweet  and  welcome  as  the  bed 
For  their  own  infant  Prophet  spread, 
When  pitying  Heaven  to  roses  turn'd 
The  death-flames  that  beneath  him  burn'd ! 

With  watchfulness  the  maid  attends 

His  rapid  glance,  where'er  it  bends — 

Why  shoots  his  eyes  such  awful  beams  1 

What  plans  he  now?   what  thinks  or  dreams  7 

Alas  !   why  stands  he  musing  here, 

WThen  every  moment  teems  with  fear  ] 

"  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  lord," 

She  kneeling  cries — "  first,  last  adored  ! 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


161 


j    If  in  that  soul  thou  'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  thy  lips  impassion'd  swore, 
ii    Here,  on  my  knees,  that  never  knelt 

To  any  but  their  God  before, 
I    I  pray  thee,  as  thou  lovest  me,  fly — 
i    Now,  now — ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh. 
jl    Oh  haste — the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  darkening  sea 
:j    East — west — alas,  I  care  not  whither, 
i     So  thou  art  safe,  and  I  with  thee  ! 
j     Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

Those  eyes  before  me  smiling  thus, 
j    Through  good  and  ill,  through  storm  and  shine. 

The  world 's  a  world  of  love  for  us  ! 
jj    On  some  calm,  blessed  shore  we'll  dwell, 
Where  'tit  no  crime  to  love  too  well; — 
j    Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee, 
Will  not  be  sin — or,  if  it  be, 
I    Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away, 
i     Together  kneeling,  night  and  day, 

Thou,  for  my  sake,  at  Alla's  shrine, 
j!    And  I — at  any  God's  for  thine  !" 

Wildly  those  passionate  words  she  spoke — 

Then  hung  her  head,  and  wept  for  shame, 
'    Sobbing,  as  if  a  heart-string  broke 

With  every  deep-heaved  sob  that  came. 

While  he,  young,  warm — oh  !  wonder  not 
If,  for  a  moment,  pride  and  fame, 
His  oath — his  cause — that  shrine  of  flame, 

And  Iran's  self  are  all  forgot 
For  her  whom  at  his  feet  he  sees, 
Kneeling  in  speechless  agonies. 
No,  blame  him  not,  if  hope  awhile 
Dawn'd  in  his  soul,  and  threw  her  smile 
O'er  hours  to  come — o'er  days  and  nights, 
Wing'd  with  those  precious,  pure  delights 
Which  she,  who  bends  all  beauteous  there, 
Was  born  to  kindle  and  to  share  ! 
A  tear  or  two,  which,  as  he  bow'd 

To  raise  the  suppliant,  trembling  stole, 
First  warn'd  him  of  this  dangerous  cloud 

Of  softness  passing  o'er  his  soul. 
Starting,  he  brush'd  the  drops  away, 
Unworthy  o'er  that  cheek  to  stray  ; — 
Like  one  who,  on  the  morn  of  fight, 
Shakes  from  his  sword  the  dews  of  night, 
That  had  but  dimm'd,  not  stain'd  its  light. 

Yet,  though  subdued  the  unnerving  thrill, 
Its  warmth,  its  weakness  linger'd  still 

So  touching  in  each  look  and  tone, 
That  the  fond,  fearing,  hoping  maid 
Half  counted  on  the  flight  she  pray'd, 

Half  thought  the  hero's  soul  was  grown 

As  soft,  as  yielding  as  her  own  ; 
And  smiled  and  bless'd  him,  while  he  said, — 
"  Yes — if  there  be  some  happier  sphere, 
Where  fadeless  truth  like  ours  is  dear — 
If  there  be  any  land  of  rest 

For  those  who  love  and  ne'er  forget, 
Oh  !  comfort  thee — for  safe  and  blest 

We'll  meet  in  that  calm  region  yet !" 

Scarce  had  she  time  to  ask  her  heart 
If  good  or  ill  these  words  impart, 
21 


When  the  roused  youth  impatient  flew 
To  the  tower-wall,  where,  high  in  view, 
A  ponderous  sea-horn  hung,  and  blew 
A  signal,  deep  and  dread  as  those 
The  storm-fiend  at  his  rising  blows. — 
Full  well  his  chieftains,  sworn  and  true 
Through  life  and  death,  that  signal  knew  ; 
For  'twas  the  appointed  warning  blast, 
The  alarm  to  tell  when  hope  was  past, 
And  the  tremendous  death-die  cast ! 
And  there,  upon  the  mouldering  tower, 
Hath  hung  this  sea-horn  many  an  hour, 
Ready  to  sound  o'er  land  and  sea 
That  dirge-note  of  the  brave  and  free. 

They  came — his  chieftains  at  the  call 
Came  slowly  round,  and  with  them  all — 
Alas,  how  few  !     the  worn  remains 
Of  those  who  late  o'er  Kerman's  plains 
Went  gayly  prancing  to  the  clash 

Of  Moorish  zel  and  tymbalon, 
Catching  new  hope  from,  every  flash 

Of  their  long  lances  in  the  sun — 
And,  as  their  coursers  gharged  the  wind, 
And  the  wide  ox-tails  stream'd  behind, 
Looking,  as  if  the  steeds  they  rode 
Were  wing'd,  and  every  chief  a  god  ! 
How  fallen,  how  alter'd  now  !  how  wan 
Each  scarr'd  and  faded  visage  shone, 
As  round  the  burning  shrine  they  came; — 

How  deadly  was  the  glare  it  cast, 
As  mute  they  paused  before  the  flame 
'    To  light  their  torches  as  they  pass'd  ! 
T  was  silence  all — the  youth  had  plann'd 
The  duties  of  his  soldier-band  ; 
And  each  determined  brow  declares 
His  faithful  chieftains  well  know  theirs. 

But  minutes  speed — night  gems  the  skies — 
And  oh  how  soon,  ye  blessed  eyes, 
That  look  from  heaven,  ye  may  behold 
Sights  that  will  turn  your  star-fires  cold  ! 
Breathless  with  awe,  impatience,  hope, 
The  maiden  sees  the  veteran  group 
Her  litter  silently  prepare, 

And  lay  it  at  her  trembling  feet ; — 
And  now  the  youth,  with  gentle  care, 

Hath  placed  her  in  the  shelter'd  seat, 
And  press'd  her  hand — that  lingering  press 

Of  hands,  that  for  the  last  time  sever ; 
Of  hearts,  whose  pulse  of  happiness, 

When  that  hold  breaks,  is  dead  for  ever. 
And  yet  to  her  this  sad  caress 

Gives  hope — so  fondly  hope  can  err ! 
'T  was  joy,  she  thought,  joy's  mute  excess — 

Their  happy  flight's  dear  harbinger  ; 
'T  was  warmth — assurance — tenderness — 

'T  was  any  thing  but  leaving  her. 

«  Haste,  haste !"  she  cried,  "  the  clouds  grow  dark, 
But  still,  ere  night,  we'll  reach  the  bark  ; 
And,  by  to-morrow's  dawn — oh  bliss  ! 

With  thee  upon  the  sun-bright  deep, 
Far  off,  I'll  but  remember  this, 

As  some  dark  vanish'd  dream  of  sleep  ! 


162 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


And  thou "  but  ah  ! — he  answers  not — 

Good  Heav'n  ! — and  does  she  go  alone  ] 
She  now  has  reach'd  that  dismal  spot, 

Where,  some  hours  since,  his  voice's  tone 
Had  come  to  soothe  her  fears  and  ills, 
Sweet  as  the  Angel  IsrafiFs, 
When  every  leaf  on  Eden's  tree 
Is  trembling  to  his  minstrelsy — 
Yet  now — oh  now,  he  is  not  nigh — 

«  Hafed  !   my  Hafed  !— if  it  be 
Thy  will,  thy  doom  this  night  to  die, 

Let  me  but.  stay  to  die  with  thee, 
And  I  will  bless  thy  loved  name, 
Till  the  last  life-breath  leave  this  frame, 
Oh  !  let  our  lips,  our  cheeks  be  laid 
But  near  each  other  while  they  fade  : 
Let  us  but  mix  our  parting  breaths, 
And  I  can  die  ten  thousand  deaths  I 
You  too,  who  hurry  me  away 
So  cruelly,  one  moment  stay — 

Oh  !  stay — one  moment  is  not  much  ; 
He  yet  may  come — for  him  I  pray — 
Hafed  !  dear  Hafed  !"— All  the  way 

la  wild  lamentings,  that  would  touch 
A  heart  of  stone,  she  shriek'd  his  name 
To  the  dark  woods — no  Hafed  came  ; — 
No — hapless  pair— you've  look'd  your  last; 

Your  hearts  should  both  have  broken  then: 
The  dream  is  o'er — your  doom  is  cast — 

You  '11  never  meet  on  earth  again  ! 

Alas  for  him,  who  hears  her  cries  ! 

Still  half-way  down  the  steep  he  stands, 
Watching  with  fix'd  and  feverish  eyes 

The  glimmer  of  those  burning  brands, 
That  down  the  rocks,  with  mournful  ray, 
Light  all  he  loves  on  earth  away  ! 
Hopeless  as  they  who,  far  at  sea, 

By  the  cold  moon  have  just  consign'd 
The  corse  of  one,  loved  tenderly, 

To  the  bleak  flood  they  leave  behind  ; 
And  on  the  deck  still  lingering  stay, 
And  long  look  back,  with  sad  delay, 
To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wave, 
That  ripples  o'er  that  cheerless  grave. 
But  see — he  starts — what  heard  he  then? 
That  dreadful  shout !  across  the  glen 
From  the  land  side  it  comes,  and  loud 
Rings  through  the  chasm;  as  if  the  crowd 
Of  fearful  things,  that  haunt  that  dell, 
Its  Gholes  and  Dives  and  shapes  of  hell 
Had  all  in  one  dread  howl  broke  out, 
So  loud,  so  terrible  that  shout ! 

They  come — the  Moslems  come !"  he  cries, 
His  proud  soul  mounting  to  his  eyes — 
"  Now,  spirits  of  the  brave,  who  roam 
Enfranchised  through  yon  starry  dome, 
Rejoice — for  souls  of  kindred  fire 
Are  on  the  wing  to  join  your  choir  !" 
He  said — and,  light  as  bridegrooms  bound 

To  their  young  loves,  reclimb'd  the  steep 
And  gain'd  the  shrine — his  chiefs  stood  round — 

Their  swords,  as  with  instinctive  leap, 
Together,  at  that  cry  accurst, 
Had  from  their  sheaths,  like  sunbeams,  burst. 


And  hark  !     again — again  it  rings  ; 

Near  and  more  near  its  echoings 

Peal  through  the  chasm — oh  !  who  that  then 

Had  seen  those  listening  warrior-men, 

With  their  swords  grasp'd,  their  eyes  of  flame 

Turn'd  on  their  chief — could  doubt  the  shame, 

The  indignant  shame  with  which  they  thrill. 

He  read  their  thoughts — they  were  his  own—, 

"  What !  while  our  arms  can  wield  these  blades, 
Shall  we  die  tamely  1  die  alone  1 

Without  one  victim  to  our  shades, 
One  Moslem  heart  where,  buried  deep, 
The  sabre  from  its  toil  may  sleep  ? 
No — God  of  Iran's  burning  skies  ! 
Thou  scorn'st  the  inglorious  sacrifice. 
No — though  of  all  earth's  hope  bereft, 
Life,  swords,  and  vengeance  still  are  left. 
We  '11  make  yon  valley's  reeking  caves 

Live  in  the  awe-struck  minds  of  men, 
Till  tyrants  shudder,  when  their  slaves 

Tell  of  the  Gheber's  bloody  glen. 
Follow,  brave  hearts  ! — this  pile  remains 
Our  refuge  still  from  life  and  chains, 
But  his  the  best,  the  holiest  bed, 
Who  sinks  entomb'd  in  Moslem  dead !" 

Down  the  precipitous  rocks  they  sprung, 
While  vigour,  more  than  human,  strung 
Each  arm  and  heart.     The  exulting  foe 
Still  through  the  dark  defiles  below, 
Track'd  by  his  torches'  lurid  fire, 

Wound  slow,  as  through  Golconda's  vale 
The  mighty  serpent,  in  his  ire, 

Glides  on  with  glittering,  deadly  trail. 
No  torch  the  Ghebers  need — so  well 
They  know  each  mystery  of  the  dell, 

So  oft  have,  in  their  wanderings, 
Cross'd  the  wild  race  that  round  them  dwell, 
The  very  tigers  from  their  delves 

Look  out,  and  let  them  pass,  as  things 
Untamed  and  fearless  as  themselves  ! 

There  was  a  deep  ravine,  that  lay 

Yet  darkling  in  the  Moslem's  way  , — 

Fit  spot  to  make  invaders  rue 

The  many  fall'n  before  the  few. 

The  torrents  from  that  morning's  sky 

Had  fill'd  the  narrow  chasm  breast-high, 

And,  on  each  side,  aloft  and  wild, 

Huge  cliffs  and  topplings  crags  were  piled, 

The  guards,  with  which  young  freedom  lines 

The  pathways  to  her  mountain  shrines. 

Here,  at  this  pass,  the  scanty  band 

Of  Iran's  last  avengers  stand — 

Here  wait,  in  silence  like  the  dead, 

And  listen  for  the  Moslem's  tread 

So  anxiously,  the  carrion-bird 

Above  them  flaps  his  wings  unheard  ! 

They  come — that  plunge  into  the  water 
Gives  signal  for  the  work  of  slaughter. 
Now,  Ghebers,  now — if  ere  your  blades 

Had  point  or  prowess,  prove  them  now — 
Wo  to  the  file  that  foremost  wades  ! 

They  come — a  falchion  greets  each  brow, 
And,  as  they  tumble,  trunk  on  trunk, 
Beneath  the  gory  waters  sunk, 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


163 


Still  o'er  their  drowning  bodies  press 
New  victims  quick  and  numberless  ; 
Till  scarce  an  arm  in  Hafed's  band, 

So  fierce  their  toil,  hath  power  to  stir, 
But  listless  from  each  crimson  hand 

The  sword  hangs,  clogg'd  with  massacre. 

Never  was  horde  of  tyrants  met 
With  bloodier  welcome — never  yet 
To  patriot  vengeance  hath  the  sword 
More  terrible  libations  pour'd  ! 
All  up  the  dreary,  long  ravine, 
By  the  red,  murky  glimmer  seen 
Of  half-quench'd  brands,  that  o'er  the  flood 
Lie  scatter'd  round  and  burn  in  blood, 
What  ruin  glares  !  what  carnage  swims  ! 
Heads,  blazing  turbans,  quivering  limbs, 
Lost  swords  that,  dropp'd  from  many  a  hand, 
In  that  thick  pool  of  slaughter  stand ; — 
Wretches  who  wading,  half  on  fire 

From  the  toss'd  brands  that  round  them  fly, 
'Twixt  flood  and  flame  in  shrieks  expire : 

And  some  who,  grasp'd  by  those  that  die, 
Sink  woundless  with  them,  smother' d  o'er 
In  their  dead  brethren's  gushing  gore  ! 

But  vainly  hundreds,  thousands  bleed, 
Still  hundreds,  thousands  more  succeed  ; — 
Countless  as  towards  some  flame  at  night 
The  north's  dark  insects  wing  their  flight, 
And  quench  or  perish  in  its  light, 
To  this  terrific  spot  they  pour — 
Till,  bridged  with  Moslem  bodies  o'er, 
It  bears  aloft  their  slippery  tread, 
And  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Tremendous  causeway  !  on  they  pass. — 
Then,  hapless  Ghebers,  then,  alas, 

What  hope  was  left  for  you  1  for  you, 
Whose  yet  warm  pile  of  sacrifice 
Is  smoking  in  their  vengeful  eyes — 

Whose  swords  how  keen,  how  fierce  they  knew, 

And  burn  with  shame  to  find  how  few. 
Crush'd  down  by  that  vast  multitude, 
Some  found  their  graves  where  first  they  stood ; 
While  some  with  hardier  struggle  died, 
And  still  fought  on  by  Hafed's  side, 
Who,  fronting  to  the  foe,  trod  back 
Towards  the  high  towers  his  gory  track  ; 
And,  as  a  lion,  swept  away 

By  sudden  swell  of  Jordan's  pride 
From  the  wild  covert  where  he  lay, 

Long  battles  with  the  o'erwhelming  tide, 
So  fought  he  back  with  fierce  delay, 
And  kept  both  foes  and  fate  at  bay. 

But  whither  now  1  their  track  is  lost, 

Their  prey  escaped — guide,  torches  gone — 

By  torrent-beds  and  labyrinths  crost, 
The  scatter'd  crowd  rush  blindly  on — 

"  Curse  on  those  tardy  lights  that  wind," 

They  panting  cry,  "  so  far  behind — 

Oh  for  a  bloodhound's  precious  scent 

To  track  the  way  the  Gheber  went !" 

Vain  wish — confusedly  along 

They  rush,  more  desperate  as  more  wrong  : 

Till,  wilder'd  by  the  far-off  lights, 

Yet  glittering  up  those  gloomy  heights, 


Their  footing,  mazed  and  lost,  they  miss, 

And  down  the  darkling  precipice 

Are  dash'd  into  the  deep  abyss  : 

Or  midway  hang,  impaled  on  rocks, 

A  banquet,  yet  alive,  for  flocks 

Of  ravening  vultures — while  the  dell 

Re-echoes  with  each  horrid  yell. 

Those  sounds — the  last,  to  vengeance  dear, 
That  e'er  shall  ring  in  Hafed's  ear, — 
Now  reach  him,  as  aloft,  alone, 
Upon  the  steep  way  breathless  thrown, 
He  lay  beside  his  reeking  blade, 

Resign'd,  as  if  life's  task  were  o'er, 
Its  last  blood-offering  amply  paid, 

And  Iran's  self  could  claim  no  more. 
One  only  thought,  one  lingering  beam 
Now  broke  across  his  dizzy  dream 
Of  pain  and  weariness — 't  was  she, 

His  heart's  pure  planet,  shining  yet 
Above  the  waste  of  memory, 

When  all  life's  other  lights  were  set. 
And  never  to  his  mind  before, 
Her  image  such  enchantment  wore. 
It  seem'd  as  if  each  thought  that  stain'd, 

Each  fear  that  chill'd  their  loves  was  past, 
And  not  one  cloud  of  earth  remain'd 

Between  him  and  her  glory  cast ; — 
As  if  to  charms,  before  so  bright, 

New  grace  from  other  worlds  was  given, 
And  his  soul  saw  her  by  the  light 

Now  breaking  o'er  itself  from  heaven  ! 

A  voice  spoke  near  him — 't  was  the  tone 

Of  a  loved  friend,  the  only  one 

Of  all  his  warriors  left  with  life 

From  that  short  night's  tremendous  strife. — 

"  And  must  we  then,  my  chief,  die  here  ? — 

Foes  round  us,  and  the  shrine  so  near"?" 

These  words  have  roused  the  last  remains 

Of  life  within  him — "  what !  not  yet 
Beyond  the  reach  of  Moslem  chains?" — 

The  thought  could  make  e'en  death  forget 
His  icy  bondage — with  a  bound 
He  springs,  all  bleeding,  from  the  ground, 
And  grasps  his  comrade's  arm,  now  grown 
E'en  feebler,  heavier  than  his  own, 
And  faintly  up  the  pathway  leads, 
Death  gaining  on  each  step  he  treads. 
Speed  them,  thou  God,  who  heard'st  their  vow  1 
They  mount— they  bleed — oh  save  them  now — 
The  crags  are  red  they've  clamber'd  o'er, 
The  rock-weeds  dripping  with  their  gore — 
Thy  blade  too,  Hafed,  false  at  length, 
Now  breaks  beneath  thy  tottering  strength — 
Haste,  haste — the  voices  of  the  foe 
Come  near  and  nearer  from  below — 
One  effort  more — thank  Heaven  !  'tis  past. 
They  've  gain'd  the  topmost  steep  at  last 
And  now  they  touch  the  temple's  walls, 

Now  Hafed  sees  the  Fire  divine — 
When,  lo  !    his  weak,  worn  comrade  falls 

Dead  on  the  threshold  of  the  shrine. 
"  Alas,  brave  soul,  too  quickly  fled  ! 

And  must  I  leave  thee  withering  here, 


164 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


The  sport  of  every  ruffian's  tread, 

The  mark  for  every  coward's  spear  ] 
No,  by  yon  altar's  sacred  beams !" 
He  cries,  and  with  a  strength  that  seems 
Not  of  this  world,  uplifts  the  frame 
Of  the  fallen  chief,  and  towards  the  flame 
Bears  him  along  ; — with  death-damp  hand 

The  corpse  upon  the  pyre  he  lays, 
Then  lights  the  consecrated  brand, 

And  fires,  the  pile,  whose  sudden  blaze, 
Like  lightning  bursts  o'er  Oman's  sea. — 

"  Now,  freedom's  God  !  I  come  to  Thee," 
The  youth  exclaims,  and  with  a  smile 
Of  triumph,  vaulting  on  the  pile, 
In  that  last  effort,  ere  the  fires 
Have  harm'd  one  glorious  limb,  expires  ! 

What  shriek  was  that  on  Oman's  tide  1 

It  came  from  yonder  drifting  bark, 
That  just  has  caught  upon  her  side 

The  death-light — and  again  is  dark. 
It  is  the  boat — ah,  why  delay  'd  ? — 
That  bears  the  wretched  Moslem  maid 
Confided  to  the  watchful  care 

Of  a  small  veteran  band,  with  whom 
Their  generous  chieftain  would  not  share 

The  secret  of  his  final  doom  ; 
But  hoped  when  Hinda,  safe  and  free, 

Was  render'd  to  her  father's  eyes, 
Their  pardon,  full  and  prompt,  would  be 

The  ransom  of  so  dear  a  prize. 
Unconscious,  thus,  of  Hafed  s  fate, 
And  proud  to  guard  their  beauteous  freight, 
Scarce  had  they  clear'd  the  surfy  waves 
That  foam  around  those  frightful  caves, 
When  the  curst  war-whoops,  known  so  well, 
Come  echoing  from  the  distant  dell — 
Sudden  each  oar,  upheld  and  still, 

Hung  dripping  o'er  the  vessel's  side, 
And,  driving  at  the  current's  will, 

They  rock'd  along  the  whispering  tide, 
While  every  eye,  in  mute  dismay, 

Was  toward  that  fatal  mountain  turn'd, 
Where  the  dim  altar's  quivering  ray 

As  yet  all  lone  and  tranquil  burn'd, 
Oh!  'tis  not,  Hinda,  in  the  power 

Of  fancy's  most  terrific  touch, 
To  paint  thy  pangs  in  that  dread  hour — 

Thy  silent  agony — 'twas  such 
As  those  who  feel  could  paint  too  well, 
But  none  e'er  felt  and  lived  to  tell ! 
'Twas  not  alone  the  dreary  state 
Of  a  lorn  spirit,  crush 'd  by  fate, 
When,  though  no  more  remains  to  dread, 

The  panic  chill  will  not  depart ; — 
When,  though  the  inmate  hope  be  dead, 

Her  ghost  still  haunts  the  mouldering  heart. 
No — pleasures,  hopes,  affections  gone, 
The  wretch  may  bear,  and  yet  live  on, 
Like  things  within  the  cold  rock  found 
Alive,  when  all 's  congeal'd  around. 
But  there's  a  blank  repose  in  this, 
A  calm  stagnation,  that  were  bliss 
To  the  keen,  burning,  harrowing  pain, 
Now  felt  through  all  thy  breast  and  brain — 


That  spasm  of  terror,  mute,  intense, 
That  breathless,  agonized  suspense, 
From  whose  hot  throb,  whose  deadly  aching 
The  heart  hath  no  relief  but  breaking  ! 

Calm  is  the  wave — heaven's  brilliant  lights, 

Reflected  dance  beneath  the  prow  ; — 
Time  was  when,  on  such  lovely  nights, 

She  who  is  there,  so  desolate  now, 
Could  sit  all  cheerful,  though  alone, 

And  ask  no  happier  joy  than  seeing 
That  star-light  o'er  the  waters  thrown — 
No  joy  but  that  to  make  her  blest, 

And  the  fresh,  buoyant  sense  of  being 
That  bounds  in  youth's  yet  careless  breast — 
Itself  a  star,  not  borrowing  light, 
But  in  its  own  glad  essence  bright. 
How  different  now  ! — but,  hark,  again 
The  yell  of  havoc  rings — brave  men  ! 
In  vain,  with  beating  hearts,  ye  stand 
On  the  bark's  edge — in  vain  each  hand 
Half  draws  the  falchion  from  its  sheath ; 

All's  o'er — in  rust  your  blades  may  lie: 
He,  at  whose  word  they  've  scatter'd  death, 

E'en  now,  this  night,  himself  must  die  ! 
Well  may  ye  look  to  yon  dim  tower, 

And  ask,  and  wondering  guess  what  means 
The  battle-cry  at  this  dead  hour — 

Ah  !  she  could  tell  you — she,  who  leans 
Unheeded  there,  pale,  sunk,  aghast, 
With  brow  against  the  dew-cold  mast — 

Too  well  she  knows — her  more  than  life, 
Her  soul's  first  idol  and  its  last, 

Lies  bleeding  in  that  murderous  strife. 
But  see — what  moves  upon  the  height? 
Some  signal  ! — 'tis  a  torch's  light. 

What  bodes  its  solitary  glare  ? 
In  gasping  silence  toward  the  shrine 
All  eyes  are  turn'd — thine,  Hinda,  thine 

Fix  their  last  failing  life-beam  there. 
'T  was  but  a  moment — fierce  and  high 
The  death-pile  blazed  into  the  sky, 
And  far  away  o'er  rock  and  flood 

Its  melancholy  radiance  sent ; 
While  Hafed,  like  a  vision,  stood 
Reveal'd  before  the  burning  pyre, 
Tall,  shadowy,  like  a  Spirit  of  Fire, 

Shrined  in  its  own  grand  element ! 
"'Tis  he  !" — the  shuddering  maid  exclaims, — 

But,  while  she  speaks,  he's  seen  no  more; 
High  burst  in  air  the  funeral  flames, 

And  Iran's  hopes  and  hers  are  o'er  ! 

One  wild,  heart-broken  shriek  she  gave — 
Then  sprung,  as  if  to  reach  the  blaze, 
Where  still  she  fix'd  her  dying  gaze, 
And,  gazing,  sunk  into  the  wave, — 
Deep,  deep, — where  never  care  or  pain 
Shall  reach  her  innocent  heart  again  ! 


FAREWELL — farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter  ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea :) 
No  pearl  ever  lay,  under  Oman's  green  water, 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in  thee. 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


165 


Oh  !  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love's  witchery  came, 

Like  the  wind  of  the  south  o'er  a  summer  lute 

blowing, 
And  hush'd  all  its  music  and  wither'd  its  frame  ! 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her,  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  nought  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up  her  tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning, 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the 
old, 

The  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  returning, 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village  maid,  when  with  flowers  she 
dresses 

Her  dark  flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day, 
Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her  tresses, 

She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  [ran,  beloved  of  her  hero  !  forget  thee, — 
Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they  start, 

Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  hero  she'll  set  thee, 
Embalm'd  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart. 

Farewell — be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 
With  every  thing  beauteous  that  grows  in  the 
deep  ; 

Each  flower  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept; 

With  many   a  shell,  in   whose  hollow-wreath'd 

chamber 
We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We  '11  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  stems  at  thy  head ; 

We'll  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian  are 

sparkling, 
Arid  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 

Farewell — farewell — until  pity's  sweet  fountain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 

They'll  weep  for  the  chieftain  who  died  on  that 

mountain,  [wave. 

They  '11  weep  for  the  maiden  who  sleeps  in  this 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS. 

THE  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more ! 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 
The  chord  alone,  that  breaks  at  night, 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 


Thus  freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 
The  only  throb  she  gives, 

Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 
To  show  that  still  she  lives  ! 


EVELEEN'S  BOWER. 

OH  !  weep  for  the  hour, 

When  to  Eveleen's  bower 
The  lord  of  the  valley  with  false  vows  came ; 

The  moon  hid  her  light 

From  the  heavens  that  night,      [shame. 
And  wept  behind  her  clouds  o'er  the  maiden's 

The  clouds  passed  soon 

From  the  chaste  cold  moon, 
And  heaven  smiled  again  with  her  vestal  flame; 

But  none  will  see  the  day 

When  the  clouds  shall  pass  away 
Which  that  dark  hour  left  upon  Eveleen's  fame. 

The  white  snow  lay 

On  the  narrow  pathway 
Where  the  lord  of  the  valley  cross'd  over  the  moor ; 

And  many  a  deep  print 

On  the  white  snow's  tint 
Show'd  the  track  of  his  footstep  to  Eveleen's  door. 

The  next  sun's  ray 

Soon  melted  away 
Every  trace  on  the  path  where  the  false  lord  came ; 

But  there's  a  light  above 

Which  alone  can  remove 
That  stain  upon  the  snow  of  fair  Eveleen's  fame. 


ALL  THAT'S  BRIGHT  MUST  FADE. 


Alii  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest. 
Stars  that  shine  and  fall ; — 

The  flower  that  drops  in  springing  ;- 
These,  alas !  are  types  of  all 

To  which  our  hearts  are  clinging 
All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest ! 

Who  would  seek  or  prize 

Delights  that  end  in  aching  1 
Who  would  trust  to  ties 

That  every  hour  are  breaking  ? 
Better  far  to  be 

In  utter  darkness  lying, 
Than  be  blest  with  light,  and  see 

That  light  for  ever  flying. 
All  that's  bright  must  fade, — 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest ; 
All  that's  sweet  was  made 

But  to  be  lost  when  sweetest ! 


166 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


OFT,  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT. 

OFT,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  ; 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken  ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I  've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather ; 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone, 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garland 's  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed  I 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


SACRED  SONG. 

THE  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine  ; 
My  temple,  Lord  !  that  arch  of  thine  ; 
My  censer's  breath  the  mountain  airs, 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 

My  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves, 

When  murmuring  homeward  to  their  caves, 

Or  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea, 

Even  more  than  music,  breathes  of  Thee  ! 

I'll  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  unknown, 

All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  throne  ! 

And  the  pale  stars  shall  be,  at  night, 

The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 

Thy  heaven,  on  which  'tis  bliss  to  look, 

Shall  be  my  pure  and  shining  book, 

When  I  shall  read,  in  words  of  flame, 

The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 

I  '11  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack 

That  clouds  awhile  the  day-beam's  track ; 

Thy  mercy  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness  breaking  through  ! 

There's  nothing  bright,  above,  below, 
From  flowers  that  bloom  to  stars  that  glow, 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  the  Deity  ! 

There 's  nothing  dark,  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  love, 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again  J 


HAS  SORROW  THY  YOUNG  DAYS 
SHADED  ? 


HAS  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded, 

As  clouds  o'er  the  morning  fleet  ] 
Too  fast  have  those  young  days  faded, 

That  even  in  sorrow  were  sweet. 
Does  Time,  with  his  cold  wing,  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear  ? 
Come,  child  of  misfortune  !  hither, 

I'll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear. 

Has  love  to  that  soul  so  tender, 

Been  like  our  Lagenian  mine  ? 
Where  sparkles  of  golden  splendour 

All  over  the  surface  shine. 
But  if  in  pursuit  we  go  deeper, 

Allured  by  the  gleam  that  shone, 
Ah  !  false  as  the  dream  of  the  sleeper, 

Like  love,  the  bright  ore  is  gone. 

Has  hope,  like  the  bird  in  the  story 

That  flitted  from  tree  to  tree 
With  the  talisman's  glittering  glory — 

Has  hope  been  that  bird  to  thee  1 
On  branch  after  branch  alighting, 

The  gem  did  she  still  display  ; 
And,  when  nearest  arid  most  inviting, 

Then  waft  the  fair  gem  away  1 

If  thus  the  sweet  hours  have  fleeted, 

When  sorrow  herself  look'd  bright ; 
If  thus  the  fond  hope  has  cheated, 

That  led  thee  along  so  light ; 
If  thus,  too,  the  cold  world  wither 
,   Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear, — 
Come,  child  of  misfortune  !  hither, 
I  '11  weep  with  thee  tear  for  tear. 


OH  NO  !  NOT  EVEN  WHEN  FIRST  WE 
LOVED. 


OH,  no  ! — not  e'en  when  first  we  loved, 

Wert  thou  as  dear  as  now  thou  art ; 
Thy  beauty  then  my  senses  moved, 

But  now  thy  virtues  bind  my  heart. 
What  was  but  passion's  sigh  before, 

Has  since  been  turn'd  to  reason's  vow  ; 
And  though  I  then  might  love  thee  more, 

Trust  me,  I  love  thee  better  now  ! 

Although  my  heart,  in  earlier  youth, 

Might  kindle  with  more  wild  desire ; 
Believe  me,  it  has  gain'd  in  truth 

Much  more  than  it  has  lost  in  fire. 
The  flame  now  warms  my  inmost  core 

That  then  but  sparkled  on  my  brow  ; 
And  though  I  seem'd  to  love  thee  more, 

Yet,  oh,  I  love  thee  better  now  !" 


CALEB    C.    COLTON. 


THE  author  of  "  Lacon"  was  educated  at 
Cambridge,  where,  in  1804,  being  then  in  the 
twenty-fifth  year  of  his  age,  he  obtained  a  fel- 
lowship. He  took  orders,  and  was  presented 
with  the  livings  of  Tiverton,  Kew  and  Peter- 
sham. These,  with  his  fellowship,  produced 
a  liberal  income,  but  his  necessities  or  eccen- 
tricities caused  him  to  reside  in  an  obscure 
garret,  "where  he  wrote  the  most  celebrated  of 
his  works,  "  Lacon,  or  Many  Things  in  Few 
Words."  By  this  he  acquired  considerable 
reputation,  and  his  disappearance  soon  after, 
on  the  murder  of  WEARE,  a  person  with  whom 
he  was  supposed  to  have  had  some  gambling 
transactions,  induced  a  rumour  that  he  had 
been  assassinated.  He  left  England  however 
only  to  avoid  his  creditors,  and  came  to  Ame- 
rica. Here,  under  an  assumed  name,  he  re- 
mained two  years,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
he  went  to  France,  where  he  continued  to 
reside  for  the  residue  of  his  life. 

In  Paris,  he  devoted  himself  to  literature, 
gambling,  and  trade  in  pictures  and  wine.  He 
wrote  the  celebrated  letters  in  the  London 
Morning  Chronicle,  signed  O.  P.  Q.,*  which 
attracted  so  much  attention  during  the  time  of 
the  Greek  revolution,  and  several  pamphlets 
on  French  politics  and  the  state  of  Europe. 
He  was  deprived  of  his  church  livings  for  non- 
residence,  but  is  said  to  have  more  than  sup- 
plied the  loss  with  his  cards  and  dice.  He 
committed  suicide,  at  Fontainebleau,  in  the 
summer  of  1832. 

The  habits  of  Mr.  COLTON,  in  his  most  pros- 
perous days,  were  peculiar.  A  friend  who 
visited  his  lodgings  in  London,  when  he  was 
in  the  zenith  of  his  reputation,  describes  them 
as  the  most  singular  and  ill-furnished  apart- 
ments he  had  ever  seen.  Keeping  no  servant, 
he  swept  his  own  floors,  and  lighted  his  own 
fires.  He  had  but  a  single  chair  fit  for 
use,  but  his  closet  was  always  stored  with 
wines  and  cigars  of  the  finest  qualities,  and  he 
received  his  guests  therefore  without  a  thought 


*  This  signature  was  subsequently  usrd  by  a  letter- 
writer  of  inferior  ;ii>ilitHH.  Mr.  COLTON'S  com^pc.nd- 
ence  ended  we  believe  in  1831. 


of  apologies  for  the  meanness  of  his  rooms. 
Notwithstanding  his  dissolute  life,  few  men 
were  ever  more  earnest  and  constant  in  their 
advocacy  of  virtue;  and  the  eloquence  and 
energy  with  which  he  delivered  his  public  dis- 
courses, sometimes  led  his  parishioners  to 
think  he  had  reformed  his  morals.  On  one 
occasion,  he  surprised  his  congregation  by  a 
sermon  of  extraordinary  power,  uttered  with 
the  most  serious  and  impressive  voice  and 
gesture  ;  but  on  leaving  the  pulpit,  with  gun 
in  hand,  he  joined  his  dogs,  and  drove  to  the 
house  of  a  sporting  friend  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, to  be  ready  for  the  next  day's  chase. 

"  Lacon"  is  doubtless  a  work  of  great  me- 
rit, but  the  germs  of  many  of  its  ideas  may  be 
found  in  BACON  and  other  authors,  and  some 
of  its  passages  are  commonplace  in  both 
thought  and  diction.  Mr.  COLTON'S  other 
productions  are  "  A  Narrative  of  the  Sampford 
Ghost,"  "  Remarks  on  the  Talents  of  Lord 
Byron  and  the  Tendencies  of  Don  Juan," 
poems  entitled  "Napoleon,"  "The  Confla- 
gration of  Moscow,"  and  "  Hypocrisy ;"  and 
"  Modern  Antiquity,  and  other  Lyrical 
Pieces,"  published  after  his  death.  They 
are  very  unequal,  and  are  marked  sometimes 
by  a  redundancy  of  epithets,  at  others  by  a 
condensation  which  renders  them  unintelligi- 
ble, and  nearly  always  by  a  straining  after 
effect  and  antithesis.  One  of  the  finest  of  his 
pieces  is  that  beginning 

"  How  long  shall  man's  iinprison'd  spirit  groan  1" 

which  was  written  but  a  few  weeks  before  he 
entered  unbidden  the  presence  of  Him  of 
whose  laws  he  was  so  conspicuous  a  teacher 
and  violator. 

Mr.  COLTON'S  political  writings  are  among 
the  most  powerful  and  original  essays  in  the 
language,  but  they  were  on  subjects  of  tem- 
porary interest,  and  are  forgotten.  No  work 
of  its  kind  ever  attracted  more  universal  or 
lasting  regard  than  "  Lacon ;"  but  with  a  per- 
versity of  judgment  not  without  parallel  in 
the  histories  of  men  of  genius,  he  regarded 
"  Hypocrisy"  as  the  most  perfect  and  endur- 

ino*  of  his  productions. 

167 


168 


CALEB    C.    COLTON. 


THE  CONFLAGRATION  OF  MOSCOW. 

HER  royal  nest  the  Russian  eagle  fires, 
And  to  the  wild  recess — revenged — retires  ; 
Her  talons  unexpended  lightnings  arm, 
And  high  resentments  all  her  courage  warm. 
Tempt  not,  thou  fiend  of  France !  her  arduous  track; 
Ambition  spurs  thee  on — defeat  shall  call  thee  back. 
False  friends  in  rear,  in  front  a  stubborn  foe, 
Thy  caterer,  famine, — and  thy  couch  the  snow  : 
Then  view  that  fiery  cope  with  ghastly  smile, 
'T  is  thy  ambition's  grand  funereal  pile. 

Blaze  on,  ye  gilded  domes  and  turrets  high, 
And  like  a  furnace  glow,  thou  trembling  sky  ! 
Be  lakes  of  fire  the  tyrant's  sole  domain, 
And  let  that  fiend  o'er  flames  and  ruins  reign ; 
Doom'd,  like  the  rebel  Angel,  to  be  shown 
A  fiery  dungeon,  where  he  hoped  a  throne. 
Blaze  on  !  thou  costliest,  proudest  sacrifice 
E'er  lit  by  patriot  hands,  or  fann'd  by  patriot's  sighs. 

By  stubborn  constancy  of  soul,  a  rock 
That  firmly  meets  but  to  return  the  shock, — 
By  all  that  power  inflicts,  or  slavery  bears — 
By  all  that  freedom  prompts,  or  valour  dares — 
By  all  that  bids  the  bright  historic  page 
Of  Greece  and  Rome  inspire  each  after  age — 
By  all  of  great,  that  must  our  wonder  raise 
In  direst,  worst  extremities, — we  praise 
A  deed  that  animates,  exalts,  inflames 
A  world  in  arms — from  Tanais  to  the  Thames  ! 
Hail !  nobly  daring,  wisely  desperate  deed  : 
Moscow  is  Paris,  should  the  Gaul  succeed ! 

Then  perish  temple,  palace,  fort,  or  tower 
That  screens  a  foeman  in  this  vengeful  hour ; 
Let  self-devotion  rule  this  righteous  cause, 
And  triumph  o'er  affections,  customs,  laws; 
With  Roman  daring  be  the  flag  unfurl'd — 
Themselves  they  conquer'd  first,  and  then  the  world. 
Be  this  the  dirge  o'er  Moscow's  mighty  grave, 
She  stood  to  foster,  but  she  fell  to  save  ! 
Her  flames  like  Judah's  guardian  pillar  rose 
To  shield  her  children,  to  confound  her  foes ; 
That  mighty  beacon  must  not  blaze  in  vain, 
It  rouses  earth,  and  flashes  o'er  the  main. 

The  sacrifice  is  made,  the  deed  is  done  : 
Russia !  thy  woes  are  finish'd,  Gaul's  begun  ! 
Soon  to  return — retire  !     There  is  a  time 
When  earthly  virtue  must  not  cope  with  crime. 
Husband  thy  strength,  let  not  a  life  be  lost, 
One  patriot's  life  is  worth  the  Gallic  host ; 
Unbend  a  while  thy  bow,  more  strongly  still 
To  force  thy  shaft,  and  all  thy  quivers  fill ; 
Crouch'd  like  the  tiger,  prescient  of  the  prey, 
Collect  thy  might,  augmented  by  delay ; 
Still  as  the  calm,  when  on  her  siren  breast 
The  slumbering  earthquake  and  the  whirlwind  rest. 
To  courage,  strength — to  strength,  cool  wisdom 

bring ; 

Nurse  every  nerve,  and  plume  thy  ruffled  wing  ; 
Firm,  but  composed, — prepared,  but  tranquil  prove, 
As  the  dread  ea^le  at  the  throne  of  Jove  ! 
Each  arm  provide,  and  engine  of  the  war, 
Till  rout  and  havor  answer — Here  we  are ! 
And  valour,  ftteel'd  by  virtuous  energy, 
To  just  rev  .nge  shall  utter — Come  with  me! 


From  pine-ploughed  Baltic,  to  that  ice-bound  coast, 
Where  desolation  lives,  and  life  is  lost, 
Bid  all  thy  Centaur-sons  around  thee  close, 
Suckled  in  storms,  and  cradled  on  the  snows, 
Hard  as  that  sea  of  stone,  that  belts  their  strand 
With  marble  wave,  more  solid  than  the  land; 
Men  fiercer  than  their  skies,  inured  to  toil, 
And  as  the  grave  tenacious  of  the  spoil, — 
Throng'd  as  the  locust,  as  the  lion  brave, 
Fleet  as  the  pard  that  hies  her  young  to  save ; 
Tell  them  their  king,  their  father  takes  the  field, 
A  host  his  presence — and  his  cause  a  shield  ! 
Nor  strike  the  blow,  till  all  thy  northern  hive, 
Concentering  thick,  for  death  or  glory  strive ; 
Then  round  the  invader  swarm,  his  death-fraught 

cloud, 

While  the  white  desert  girds  him  like  a  shroud, — 
Full  on  his  front  and  rear,  the  battle-tide 
With  arm  of  lightning,  hoof  of  thunder  guide  ; 
Soon  shall  the  Gaul  his  transient  triumph  rue — 
Fierce  burns  the  victim,  and  the  altar  too  ! 

Now  sinks  the  blood-red  sun,  eclipsed  by  light, 
And  yields  his  throne  to  far  more  brilliant  night. 
Roused  by  the  flames,  the  blast,  with  rushing  sound, 
Both  fed  and  fann'd  the  ruin  that  it  found. 
Long  stood  each  stately  tower  and  column  high, 
And  saw  the  molten  gulf  beneath  them  lie: 
Long  rear'd  their  heads  the  aspiring  flames  above, 
As  stood  the  giants  when  they  warr'd  with  Jove, — 
Conquer'd  at  length,  with  hideous  crash  they  fall, 
And  one  o'erwhelming  havoc  covers  all. 
Nor  J3tna,  nor  Vesuvius,  though  combined 
In  horrid  league,  and  chafed  by  every   wind 
That  from  the  hoarse  JEolian  cave  is  driven, 
Could  with  such  wreck  astound  both  earth  and 

heaven. 

Rage,  elements  !  wreck,  ravage  all  ye  can, 
Ye  are  not  half  so  fierce  as  man  to  man  !     [mand, 
Wide  and  more  wide,  self-warn'd,  without  corn- 
Gaul's  awe-struck  files  their  circling  wings  expand ; 
Through  many  a  stage  of  horrors  had  they  pass'd — 
The  climax  this,  the  direst  and  the  last; 
Albeit  unused  o'er  others'  griefs  to  moan, 
Soon  shall  they  purchase  feeling  from  their  own. 
From  flank  to  centre,  and  from  rear  to  van, 
The  billowing,  crackling  conflagration  ran, — 
Wraps  earth  in  sulphurous  wave,  and  now  the  skies 
With  tall  colossal  magnitude  defies, — 
Extends  her  base,  while  sword  and  spear  retire. 
Weak  as  the  bulrush  to  the  lava's  ire. 
Long  had  that  circle,  belted  wide  and  far 
By  burnish'd  helm,  and  bristling  steel  of  war, 
Presented  hideous  to  the  Gallic-host 
One  blazing  sea,  one  adamantine  coast ! 
High  o'er  their  head  the  bickering  radiance  towers, 
Or  falls  from  clouds  of  smoke  in  scorching  showers  : 
Beneath  their  crimson  concave  long  they  stood 
Like  bordering  pines,  when  lightning  fires  the  wood, 
And  as  thev  hemm'd  that  grim  horizon  in, 
Each  rpad  in  each  the  terrors  of  the  scene. 
j   Some  fear'd — accusing  conscience  waked  the  fear, 
The  day  of  wrath  and  retribution  near,    [proclaim, 
Deem'd    that   they    heard   that,  thunderous  Voice 
"  Ttou  moon,  to  blood   be  turned ;  thou  earth,  to 

flame  !" 


CALEB  C.  COLTON. 


169 


Red-robed  destruction  far  and  wide  extends 
Her  thousand  arms,  and  summons  all  her  fiends 
To  glut  their  fill,  a  gaunt  and  ghastly  brood! 
Their  food  is  carnage,  and  their  drink  is  blood ; 
Their  music,  wo  :  nor  did  that  feast  of  hell 
Fit  concert  want, — the  conquerors'  savage  yell — 
Their  groans  arid  shrieks  whom  sickness,  age,  or 

wound,     „ 

Or  changeless,  fearless  love  in  fatal  durance  bound. 
While  valour  sternly  sighs,  while  beauty  weeps ; 
And  vengeance,  soon  to  wake  like  Samson,  sleeps, 
Shrouded  in  flame,  the  imperial  city  low 
Like  Dagon's  temple  falls — but  falls  to  crush  the  foe! 

Tyrant !  think  not  she  unavenged  shall  burn ; 
Thou  too  hast  much  to  suffer,  much  to  learn  : 
That  thirst  of  power  the  Danube  but  inflamed, 
By  Neva's  cooler  current  may  be  tamed. 
Triumph  a  little  space  by  craft  and  crime, 
Two  foes  thou  canst  not  conquer — Truth  and  time. 
Resistless  pair  !  they  doom  thy  power  to  fade, 
Lost  in  the  ruins  that  itself  hath  made ! 
Or,  damn'd  to  fame,  like  Babylon  to  scowl 
O'er  wastes  where  serpents  hiss,  hyaenas  howl. 

Forge  then  the  links  of  martial  law,  that  bind, 
Enslave,  imbrute,  and  mechanise  the  mind ; 
Indite  thy  conscript  code  with  iron  pen, 
That  cancels  crime,  demoralizes  men  : 
Thy  false  and  fatal  aid  to  virtue  lend, 
And  start  a  Washington,  a  Nero  end  ; 
And  vainly  strive  to  strangle  in  his  youth 
Freedom,  the  Herculean  son  of  light  and  truth. 
Stepfather  foul ! — thou  to  his  infant  bed 
Didst  steal,  and  drop  a  changeling  in  his  stead. 
— Yes,  yes, — I  see  thee  turn  thy  vaunting  gaze, 
Where  files  reflect  to  files  the  o'erpowering  blaze; 
Rather,  like  Xerxes,  o'er  those  numbers  sigh, 
Braver  than  his,  but  sooner  doom'd  to  die. 
Here — number  only  courts  that  death  it  cloys  ! 
Here — rri'ght  is  weakness,  and  herself  destroys ; 
Lead  then  thy  southern  myriads  lock'd  in  steel, 
Lead  on !  too  soon  their  nerveless  arm  shall  feel 
Those  magazines  impregnable  of  snow, 
That  kill  without  a  wound,  o'erwhelm  without  a  foe! 

I  see  thee, — 'tis  the  bard's  prophetic  eye, 
Blindly  presumptuous  chief, — I  see  thee  fly  ! 
While  breathing  skeletons,  and  bloodless  dead, 
Point  to  the  thirsting  foe  the  track  you  tread. 
To  seize  was  easy,  and  to  march  was  plain ; 
Hard  to  retreat,  and  harder  to  retain. 
Reft  of  thy  trappings,  pomp,  and  glittering  gear, 
Dearth  in  thy  van, — destruction  in  thy  rear, — 
Like  foil'd  Darius,  doom'd  too  late  to  know 
The  stern  enigmas  of  a  Scythian  foe, — 
Thy  standard  torn,  while  vengeful  scorpions  sting 
The  imperial  bird,  and  cramp  his  flagging  wing, — 
The  days  are  number' d  of  thy  motley  host, 
Freedom's  vain  fear,  oppression's  vainer  boast. 

And  lo  !  the  Beresyna  opens  wide 
His  yawning  mouth,  his  wintry  weltering  tide  ! 
Expectant  of  his  mighty  meal,  he  flows 
In  silent  ambush  through  his  trackless  snows : 
There  shall  thy  way-worn  ranks  despairing  stand, 
Like  trooping  spectres  on  the  Stygian  strand, 
An-1  curse  their  fite  and  thfo, — arid  conquest  sown 
With  retribution  deep,  in  vain  repentance  moan  ! 


Thy  veteran  worn  by  wounds,  and  years,  and  toils, 
Pilgrim  of  honour  in  all  suns  and  soils  ! 
By  thy  ambition  foully  tempted  forth 
To  fight  the  frozen  rigours  of  the  north, 
Above  complaint,  indignant  at  his  wrongs, 
Curses  the  morsel  that  his  life  prolongs,     [sigh, — 
Unpierced,   unconquer'd   sinks ;     yet   breathes  a 
For  he  had  hoped  a  soldier's  death  to  die. 
Was  it  for  this  that  fatal  hour  he  braved, 
When  o'er  the  cross  the  conquering  crescent  waved] 
Was  it  for  this  he  ploughed  the  western  main, 
To  weld  the  struggling  negro's  broken  chain, — 
Faced  his  relentless  hate,  to  frenzy  fired; 
Stung  by  past  wrongs,  by  present  hopes  inspired, — 
Then  hurried  home  to  lend  his  treacherous  aid, 
And  stain  more  deeply  still  the  warrior's  blade, 
When  spoiled  Iberia,  roused  to  deeds  sublime, 
Made  vengeance  virtue — clemency  a  crime ; 
And  'scaped  he  these,  to  fall  without  a  foe  ? 
The  wolf  his  sepulchre — his  shroud  the  snow  ! 

'T  is  morn  ! — but  lo,  the  warrior-steed  in  vain 
The  trumpet  summons  from  the  bloodless  plain  ; 
Ne'er  was  he  known  till  now  to  stand  aloof, 
Still  midst  the  slain  was  found  his  crimson  hoof; 
And  struggling  still  to  join  that  well-known  sound, 
He  dies,  ignobly  dies,  without  a  wound  ! 
Oft  had  he  hailed  the  battle  from  afar, 
And  paw'd  to  meet  the  rushing  wreck  of  war! 
With  reinless  neck  the  danger  oft  had  braved, 
And  crush'd  the  foe — his  wounded  rider  saved ; 
Oft  had  the  rattling  spear  and  sword  assail'd 
His  generous  heart,  and  had  as  often  fail'd  : 
That  heart  no  more  life's  frozen  current  thaws, 
Brave,  guiltless  champion,  in  a  guilty  cause  ! 
One  northern  night  more  hideous  work  hath  done 
Than  whole  campaigns  beneath  a  southern  sun. 
Spoil'd  child  of  fortune !     could  the  murder'd 

Turk 

Or  wronged  Iberian  view  thy  ghastly  work, 
They  'd  sheathe  the  vengeful  blade,  and  clearly  see 
France  needs  no  deadlier,  direr  curse  than  thee. 
War  hath  fed  war ! — such  was  thy  dread  behest, 
Now  view  the  iron  fragments  of  the  feast. 
Oh,  if  to  cause  and  witness  others'  grief 
Unmoved,  be  firmness — thou  art  Stoa's  chief! 
Thy  fell  recorded  boast,  all  Zeno  said 
Outdoes — « I  wear  my  heart  within  my  head!" — 
Cauarht  in  the  northern  net,  what  darest  thou  dare  ? 
Snatch  might  from  madness?  courage  from  despair? 
If  courage  lend  thy  breast  a  transient  ray, 
'T  is  the  storm's  lightning — not  the  beam  of  day  : 
When  on  thine  hopes  the  cloud  of  battle  lowers, 
And  frowns  the  vengeance  of  insulted  powers  ; 
Whan  victory  trembles  in  the  doubtful  scale, 
And  death  deals  thick  and  fast  his  iron  hail ; 
When  all  is  staked,  and  the  dread  hazard  known, 
A  rising  scaffold,  and  a  falling  throne  ! 
Then,  can  thy  dastard  soul  some  semblance  wear 
Of  manhood's  stamp — when  fear  hath  conquer'd 

fear! 

Canst  thou  be  brave?  whose  dying  prospects  show 
A  scene  of  all  that's  horrible  in  wo  ! 
On  whose  ambition,  long  by  carnage  nursed, 
Death  stamps  the  greatest  change — the  last,  the 
worst ! 

P 


170 


CALEB    C.    COLTON. 


Death  ! — to  thy  view  most  terrible  of  things, 
Dreadful  in  all  he  takes  and  all  he  brings  ! 
— But,  King  of  Terrors  !   ere  thou  seize  thy  prey, 
Point  with  a  lingering  dart  to  Moscow's  fatal  day  ; 
Shake  with  that  scene  his  agonizing  frame, 
And  on  the  wreck  of  nations  write  his  name  ! 
Oh,  when  will  conquerors  from  example  learn, 
Or  truth  from  aught  but  self-experience  earn  1 
How  many  Catos  must  be  wept  again  ! 
How  many  Cse.sars  sacrificed  in  vain  ! 
While  Europe  dozed — too  aged  to  be  taught — 
The  historic  lesson  young  Columbia  caught, 
Enraptured  hung  o'er  that  inspiring  theme, 
Conn'd  it  by  wood,  by  mountain,  and  by  stream, 
Till  every  Grecian,  Roman  name,  the  morn 
Of  freedom  hail'd, — and  Washington  was  born  ! 

I  see  thee  redden  at  that  mighty  name, 
That  nils  the  herd  of  conquerors  with  shame : 
But  ere  we  part,  Napoleon  !  deign  to  hear 
The  boilings  of  thy  future  dark  career ; 
Fate  to  the  poet  trusts  her  iron  leaf, 
Fraught  with  thy  ruin — read  it  and  be  brief, — 
Then  to  thy  senate  flee,  to  tell  the  tale  , 

Of  Russia's  full  revenge,Gaul's  deep  indignant  wail. 
— It  is  thy  doom  false  greatness  to  pursue, 
Rejecting,  and  rejected  by,  the  true ; 
A  Stirling  name,  thrice  proffered,  to  refuse ; 
And  highest  means  pervert  to  lowest  views  ; 
Till  fate  and  fortune — finding  that  thou  'rt  still 
Untaught  by  all  their  good  and  all  their  ill, 
Expell'd,  recall'd,  reconquer'd — all  in  vain, — 
Shall  sink  thee  to  thy  nothingness  again. 
Though  times,  occasions,  chances,  foes  and  friends, 
Urged  thee  to  purest  fame,  by  purest  ends, 
In  this  alone  be  great — to  have  withstood 
Such  varied,  vast  temptations  to  be  good  ! 
As  hood-wink'd  falcons  boldest  pierce  the  skies, 
The  ambition  that  is  blindest  highest  flies  ; 
And  thine  still  waked  by  night,  still  dream'd  by  day, 
To  rule  o'er  kings,  as  these  o'er  subjects  sway  ; 
Nor  dared  thy  mitred  Mentor  set  thee  right : 
Thou  art  not  Philip's  son — nor  he  the  Stagyrite  ! 

And  lo,  thy  dread,  thy  hate  !  the  Queen  of  Isles, 
Frowns  at  thy  guilt,  and  at  thy  menace  smiles  ; 
Free  of  her  treasure,  freer  of  her  blood, 
She  summons  all  the  brave,  the  great,  the  good. 
But  ill  befits  her  praise  my  partial  line, 
Enough  for  me  to  boast — that  land  is  mine. — 

And  last,  to  fix  thy  fate  and  seal  thy  doom, 
Her  bugle  note  shall  Scotia  stern  resume,  [plume* 
Shall  grasp  her  Highland  brand,  her  plaided  bonnet 
From  hill  and  dale,  from  hamlet,  heath,  and  wood, 
She  pours  her  dark,  resistless  battle-flood. 
Breathe  there  a  race,  that  from  the  approving  hand 
Of  nature,  more  deserve,  or  less  demand  1 
So  skill'd  to  wake  the  lyre,  or  wield  the  sword ; 
To  achieve  great  actions,  or,  achieved — record  ; 
Victorious  in  the  conflict  as  the  truce, — 
Triumphant  in  a  Burns  as  in  a  Bruce  ! 
Where'er  the  bay,  where'er  the  laurel  grows, 
Their  wild  notes  warble,  and  their  life-blood  flows. 
There,  truth  courts  access,  and  would  all  engage, 
Lavish  as  youth — experienced  as  age; 
Proud  science  there,  with  purest  nature  twined, 
In  firmest  thraldom  holds  the  freest  mind ; 


While  courage  rears  his  limbs  of  giant  form, 
Rock'd  by  the  blast,  and  strengthen'd  by  the  storm! 
Rome  fell ; — and  freedom  to  her  craggy  glen 
Transferr'd  that  title  proud — The  nurse  of  men  ! 
By  deeds  of  hazard  high,  and  bold  emprize, 
Train'd  like  their  native  eagle  for  the  skies, — 
Untamed  by  toil,  unconquer'd  till  they  're  slain  ; 
Walls  in  their  trenches — whirlwinds  on  the  plain, 
This  meed  accept  from  Albion's  grateful  breath, 
Brothers  in  arms!  in  victory  !  in  death  ! — 
Such  are  thy  foes,  Napoleon,  when  time 
Wakes  vengeance,  sure  concomitant  of  crime. 
Fixed,  like  Prometheus,  to  thy  rock,  o'erpower'd 
By  force,  by  vulture-conscience  slow  devour'd  ; 
With  godlike  power,  but  fiendlike  rage,  no  more 
To  drench  the  world — thy  reeking  stage — in  gore ; 
Fit  but  o'er  shame  to  triumph  and  to  rule  ; 
And  proved  in  all  things — but  in  danger — cool ; 
That  found'st  a  nation  melted  to  thy  will, 
And  freedom's  place  didst  with  thine  image  fill ; 
Skill'd  not  to  govern,  but  obey  the  storm, 
To  catch  the  tame  occasion,  not  to  form  ; 
Victorious  only  when  success  pursued, 
But  when  thou  followed'st  her,  as  quick  subdued  : 
The  first  to  challenge,  as  the  first  to  run ; 
Whom  death  and  glory  both  consent  to  shun — 
Live  !  that  thy  body  and  thy  soul  may  be 
Foes  that  can't  part,  and  friends  that  can't  agree. — 
Live !  to  be  numbered  with  that  common  herd, 
Who  life's  base  boon  unto  themselves  preferred, — 
Live  !  till  each  dazzled  fool  hath  understood 
That  nothing  can  be  great  that  is  not  good. 
And  when  remorse,  for  blood  in  torrents  spilt, 
Shall  sting — to  madness — conscious,  sleepless  guilt, 
May  deep  contrition  this  black  hope  repel, — 
Snatch  me,  thou  future,  from  this  present,  hell ! 
Give  me  the  mind  that,  bent  on  highest  aim, 
Deems  virtue's  rugged  path  sole  path  to  fame ; 
Great  things  with  small  compares,  in  scale  sublime, 
And  death  with  life  !  eternity  with  time : 
Man's  whole  existence  weighs,  sifts  nature's  laws,- 
And  views  results  in  the  embryo  of  their  cause; 
Prepared  to  meet,  with  corresponding  deeds, 
Events,  as  yet  imprisoned  in  their  seeds ; 
Kens,  in  his  acorn  hid,  the  king  of  trees, 
And  freedom's  germ  in  foul  oppression  sees  ; 
Precedes  the  march  of  time — to  ponder  fate, 
And  execute,  while  others  meditate; 
That,  deaf  to  present  praise,  the  servile  knee 
Rebukes,  and  says  to  glory — Follow  me  ! 


LIFE. 

How  long  shall  man's  imprison'd  spirit  groan 
'Twixt  doubt  of  heaven  and  deep  disgust  of  earth  1 

Where  all  worth  knowing  never  can  be  known, 
And  all  that  can  be  known,  alas!  is  nothing  worth. 

Untaught  by  saint,  by  cynic,  or  by  sage, 
And  all  the  spoils  of  time  that  load  their  shelves, 

We  do  not  quit,  but  change  our  joys  in  age — 
Joys  framed  to  stifle  thought,  and  lead  us  from  our- 
selves. 


CALEB    C.    COLTON. 


171 


The  drug,  the  cord,  the  steel,  the  flood,  the  flame, 

Turmoil  of  action,  tedium  of  rest, 
And  lust  of  change,  though  for  the  worst,  proclaim 

How  dull  life's  banquet  is :  how  ill  at  ease  the  guest. 

Known  were  the  bill  of  fare  before  we  taste, 
Who  would  not  spurn  the  banquet  and  the  board — 

Prefer  th'  eternal,  but  oblivious  fast,          [sword  1 
To  life's  frail-fretted  thread,  and  death's  suspended 

He  that  the  topmost  stone  of  Babel  plann'd, 
And  he  that  braved  the  crater's  boiling  bed — 

Did  these  a  clearer,  closer  view  command       [led  ? 
Of  heaven  or  hell,  we  ask,  than  the  blind  herd  they 

Or  he  that  in  Valdarno  did  prolong 

The  night  her  rich  star-studded  page  to  read — 
Could  he  point  out,  midst  all  that  brilliant  throng, 

His  fixed  and  final  home,  from  fleshy  thraldom 
freed  ? 

Minds  that  have  scann'd  creation's  vast  domain, 
And  secrets  solved,  till  then  to  sages  seal'd, 

Whilst  nature  own'd  their  intellectual  reign 
Extinct,  have  nothing  known  or  nothing  have  re- 
vealed. 

Devouring  grave  !  we  might  the  less  deplore 
Th'  extinguish'd  lights  that  in  thy  darkness  dwell, 

Wrouldst  thou,  from  that  last  zodiac,  one  restore, 
That  might  th'  enigma  solve,  and  doubt,  man's 
tyrant,  quell. 

To  live  in  darkness — in  despair  to  die — 
Is  this  indeed  the  boon  to  mortals  given  1 

Is  there  no  port — no  rock  of  refuge  nigh  1    [heaven. 
There  is — to  those  who  fix  their  anchor-hope  in 

Turn  then,  0  man !  and  cast  all  else  aside  : 
Direct  thy  wandering  thoughts  to  things  above — 

Low  at  the  cross  bow  down — in  that  confide, 
Till  doubt  be  lost  in  faith,  and  bliss  secured  in  love. 


IRREGULAR  ODE,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
LORD  BYRON. 

WE  mourn  thy  wreck  ; — that  mighty  mind 

Did  whirlwind  passions  whelm, 
While  wisdom  waver'd,  half  inclined 

To  quit  the  dangerous  helm ; 
Thou  wast  an  argosy  of  cost, 

Equipp'd,  enrich'd  in  vain, 
Of  gods  the  work — of  men  the  boast, 
Glory  thy  port, — and  doomed  to  gain 
That  splendid  haven,  only  to  be  lost ! 

Lost,  even  when  Greece,  with  conquest  blest, 

Thy  gallant  bearing  hail'd  ; — 
Then  sighs  from  valour's  mailed  breast, 

And  tears  of  beauty  fail'd  ; 
Oh  !  hadst  thou  in  the  battle  died, 

Triumphant  even  in  death, 
The  patriot's  as  the  poet's  pride, 
While  both  Minervas  twined  thy  wreath, 
Then  had  thy  full  career  malice  and  fate  defied ! 

What  architect,  with  choice  design, 

— Of  Rome  or  Athens  styled — 
Ere  left  a  monument  like  thine  1 — 

And  all  from  ruins  piled ! 


A  prouder  motto  marks  thy  stone 

Than  Archimedes'  tomb; 
He  asked  a  fulcrum — thou  demandest  none, 
But — reckless  of  past,  present,  and  to  come — 
Didst  on  thyself  depend,  to  shake  the  world — alone/ 

Thine  eye  to  all  extremes  and  ends 

And  opposites  could  turn, 
And,  like  the  congelated  lens, 

Could  sparkle,  freeze,  or  burn  ; — 
But  in  thy  mind's  abyss  profound, 

As  in  some  limbo  vast, 
More  shapes  and  monsters  did  abound, 
To  set  the  wondering  world  aghast, 
Than  wave-worn  Noah  fed,  or  starry  Tuscan  found! 

Was  love  thy  lay, — Cithsera  rein'd 

Her  car,  and  own'd  the  spell ! 
Was  hate  thy  theme, — that  murky  fiend 

For  hotter  earth  left  hell ! 
The  palaced  crown,  the  cloister'd  cowl, 

Moved  but  thy  spleen  or  mirth  ; 
Thy  smile  was  deadlier  than  thy  scowl, 
In  guise  unearthly  didst  thou  roam  the  earth, 
Screen'd  in  Thalia's  mask, — to  drug  the  tragic  bowl! 

Lord  of  thine  own  imperial  sky, 

In  virgin  «  pride  of  place," 
Thou  soared'st  where  others  could  not  fly, 

And  hardly  dared  to  gaze  ! — 
The  condor,  thus,  his  pennon'd  vane 

O'er  Cotopaxa  spreads, 

But — should  he  ken  the  prey,  or  scent  the  slain, — 
Nor  chilling  height  nor  burning  depth  he  dreads, 
From  Andes'  crystal  crag,  to  Lima's  sultry  plain ! 

Like  Lucan's,  early  was  thy  tomb, 

And  more  than  Bion's  mourn'd ; — 
For,  still,  such  lights  themselves  consume, 

The  brightest,  briefest  burn'd  : — 
But  from  thy  blazing  shield  recoiled 

Pale  envy's  bolt  of  lead  ; 
She,  but  to  work  thy  triumphs,  toil'd, 
And,  muttering  coward  curses,  fled  ; — 
Thee,  thine  own  strength  alone — like  matchless 
Milo— foil'd. 

We  prize  thee,  that  thou  didst  not  fear 

What  stoutest  hearts  might  rack, 
And  didst  the  diamond  genius  wear, 

That  tempts — yet  foils — the  attack. 
We  mourn  thee,  that  thou  wouldst  not  find, 

While  prison'd  in  thy  clay, 

— Since  such  there  were, — some  kindred  mind, — 
For  friendship  lasts  through  life's  long  day, 
And  doth,  with  surer  chain  than  love  or  beauty,  bind! 

We  blame  thee,  that  with  baleful  light 

Thou  didst  astound  the  world, 
— A  comet,  plunging  from  its  height, 

And  into  chaos  hurl'd  ! — 
Accorded  king  of  anarch  power, 

And  talent  misapplied  ; 
That  hid  thy  God,  in  evil  hour, 
Or  showed  Him  only  to  deride,  [lour ! 

And,  o'er  the  gifted  blaze  of  thine  own  brightness, 


172 


JOHN    KENYON. 


Thy  fierce  volcanic  breast,  o'ercast 

With  Heda's  frosty  cloak, 
All  earth  with  fire  impure  could  blast, 

And  darken  heaven  with  smoke: 
O'er  ocean,  continent,  and  isle, 

The  conflagration  ran  : — 
Thou,  from  thy  throne  of  ice,  the  while, 
Didst  the  red  ruin  calmly  scan, 
And   tuned  Apollo's  harp — with  Nero's  ghastly 
smile  ! 

What  now  avails  that  muse  of  fire, — 

Her  nothing  of  a  name  ! 
Thy  master  hand  and  matchless  lyre, 

What  have  they  gained — but  fame  ! 


Fame — Fancy's  child — by  folly  fed, 

On  breath  of  meanest  things, — 
A  phantom,  wooed  in  virtue's  stead, 
That  envy  to  the  living  brings, 
And  silent,  solemn  mockery  to  the  dead  ! 

Ne'er,  since  the  deep-toned  Theban  sung 

Unto  the  listening  nine, — 
Has  classic  hill  or  valley  rung 

With  harmony  like  thine  ! 
Who  now  shall  wake  thy  willow'd  lyre ! 

— There  breathes  but  one,  who  dares 
To  that  Herculean  task  aspire  ; 
But — less  than  thou — for  fame  he  cares,    [desire  ! 
And  scorns  both  hope  and  fear — ambition  and 


JOHN    KENYON. 


JOHN  KENYON,  the  descendant  of  a  highly 
respectable  Anglo-West  Indian  family,  was 
born,  we  believe,  in  Jamaica,  and  educated  at 
the  Charter-house  and  Cambridge.  On  quit- 
ting- the  university,  he  went  abroad,  visited 
various  parts  of  the  European  continent,  and 
resided  for  some  time  in  Italy.  Returning 
from  his  travels,  he  settled  in  England,  divid- 
ing his  time  between  London  and  the  country, 
between  his  books  and  his  friends  ;  among  the 


latter  enumerating  WORDSWORTH,  SOUTHEY, 
COLERIDGE,  and  many  of  the  most  distin- 
guished persons  of  the  age. 

The  only  works  of  Mr.  KENYON  with  which 
we  are  acquainted,  are  a  "  Rhymed  Plea  for 
Tolerance,"  and  "Poems,  for  the  most  part 
Occasional;"  the  first  published  in  1833, 
and  the  last  in  1833.  His  productions  are 
generally  of  a  serious,  didactic  sort,  philoso- 
phical and  liberal,  and  carefully  versified. 


TO  THE   MOON. 

THAT  peace,  how  deep !  this  night  of  thousand 

stars, 

That  hide  themselves  abash'd  from  the  bold  sun, 
But  hang,  all  fondly,  on  thy  gentler  brow, — 
How  calm  !     Yet  not  o'er  calmer  skies  alone, 
Mild  Moon  !   is  thy  dominion  :     Thou  dost  sway 
The  very  storm  to  obey  thy  peacefulness. 
When  winds  are  piping,  and  the  charged  clouds, 
As  if  out-summon'd  by  that  warlike  music, 
First  in  black  squadrons  rush  ;  then  sternly  muster 
In  sullen  mass,  on  either  side  the  heaven, 
Like  armies  face  to  face,  with  space  between  ; 
'Tis  then  Thou  glidest  forth;  like  some  pale  nun, 
Unhooded,  whom  a  high  and  rare  occasion 
Wrests  from  her  sanctuary,  to  interpose 
In  mortal  quarrel,  so  thou  glidest  forth, 
And  lookest  thy  mild  bidding ;  and  the  winds 
Are  silent ;  and  those  close-compacted  clouds, 
Disbanding,  fleet  in  tender  flakes  away, 
And  leave  the  world  to  thy  tranquillity.     .     .     . 

And  ne'er  did  dawn  behold  thee  lovelier  yot, 
Than  when  we  saw  thee,  one  remember'd  day, 
Thee  and  that  brightest  of  all  morning-stars, 
Hang  o'er  the  Adrian ;  not  in  thy  full  lustre, 
But  graceful  with  slim  crescent;  such  as,  erst, 
Some  Arab  chief  beheld  in  his  own  sky 


Of  purest,  deepest  azure  ;  and  so  loved  it, 
So  loved  it,  that  he  chose  it  for  his  symbol ; 
A  peaceful  symbol  on  a  warlike  banner  ! 
And  oft,  I  ween,  in  many  a  distant  camp, 
Mid  the  sharp  neigh  of  steeds,  and  clash  of  cymbals, 
And  jingle  of  the  nodding  Moorish  bells, 
When  he  hath  caught  that  image  o'er  the  tents, 
Hath  he  bethought  him  of  the  placid  hours 
When  thou  wast  whitening  his  night-feeding  flocks 
On  Yemen's  happy  hills ;  and  then,  perchance, 
Hath  sigh'd  to  think  of  war  !   We  too  beheld  thee 
With  untired  eye  fix'd  upward  ;  scarce  regarding 
(So  deep  the  charm  which  thou  hadst  wrapp'd 

around  us) 

Where  reddening  lines  along  the  eastward  sea 
Spoke  of  the  sun's  uprising.     Up  he  rose, 
From  o'er  the  regions  of  the  near  Illyria, 
Glorious,  how  glorious  ! — if  less  gladly  hail'd 
As  warning  thy  departure.     Yet,  some  time, 
Ye  shone  together ;  and  we  then  might  feel 
How  they,  the  ancient  masters  of  that  land, 
The  dwellers  on  the  banks  of  Rubicon, 
Who  saw  what  we  were  seeing,  uninstruct' 
Of  wiser  faith,  had,  in  no  feign'd  devotion, 
Bow'd  down  to  thee,  their  Dian,  and  to  him 
Bright-hair'd  Apollo  !     We,  too,  bow'd  our  hearts, 
But  in  a  purer  worship,  to  the  One, 
Who  made,  alone,  the  hills  and  seas  and  skies, 


JOHN.  KEN  YON. 


173 


And  thee,  fair  moon,  the  hallower  of  them  all ! 
— Well  did  that  sun  fulfil  his  rising  promise, 
Showering  redundant  light,  the  livelong  day, 
.O'er  plain,  and  inland  peak,  and  bluest  sea ; 
And  brightening  the  far  mole,  which  old  Ancona 
Hath  rear'd  upon  the  waves.     Meanwhile,  thy  form 
(Faint  and  more  faint,  and,  if  might  be,  more  fair ; 
And  still,  as  near  to  lose  thee,  loved  the  more) 
Thinn'd  to  unseen.     But  as  some  morning  dream, 
Too  sweet  to  part  with,  and  which  yet  must  fade 
At  touch  of  light,  will  oft  unconsciously 
Mix  with  the  day,  serener  thoughts  inweaving 
Than  sunbeams  bring ;  or,  as  some  melody, 
Closed  on  the  ear,  nor  e'en  by  it  remember'd, 
Will  still  its  silent  agency  prolong 
Upon  the  spirit,  with  a  hoarded  sweetness 
Tempering  the  after-mood  ;  e'en  so  did'st  thou 
Waft  the  bland  influence  of  thy  dawning  presence 
Over  the  onward  hours.    Yet,  thou  sphered  vestal ! 
If  mine  it  were  to  choose  me  when  to  bend 
Before  thy  high-hung  lamp  ;  and  venerate 
Thy  mysteries;  and  feel,  not  hear,  the  voice 
Of  thy  mute  admonition  ;  let  it  be 
At  holy  vesper-tide,  when  nature  all 
Whispers  of  peace  ;  if  solemn  less  than  night's, 
More  soothing  still.     Such  season  of  the  soul 
Obeys  thee  best.     For  as  the  unwrinkled  pool, 
Still'd  o'er  by  stirless  eve,  will  dimple  under 
The  tiniest  brushing  of  an  insect's  wing  ; 
So,  at  that  hour,  do  human  hearts  respond 

To  every  touch  of  finer  thought Such  eve 

Such  blessed  eve  was  ours,  when  last  we  stood 

Beside  the  storied  shore  of  Gaeta, 

Breathing  its  citron'd  air.     Silence  more  strict 

Was  never.     The  small  wave,  or  ripple  rather, 

Scarce  lisping  up  the  sand,  crept  to  the  ear,     [ment 

Sole  sound ;  nor  did  we  break  the  calm  with  move- 

Or  sacrilege  of  word  ;  but  stay'd  in  peace, 

Of  thee  expectant.     And  what  need  had  been 

Of  voiced  language,  when  the  silent  eye, 

And  silent  pressure  of  each  link'd  arm, 

Spoke  more  than  utterance  ?     Nay,  whose  tongue 

might  tell 

What  hues  were  garlanding  the  western  sky 
To  welcome  thy  approaching  !    Purple  hues 
With  orange  wove,  and  many  a  floating  lake 
Crimson  or  rose,  with  that  last  tender  green 
Which  best  relieves  thy  beauty.     Who  may  paint 
How  glow'd  those  hills,  with  depth  of  ruddy  light 
Translucified,  and  half  ethereal  made, 
For  thy  white  feet  to  tread  on  ?  and,  ere  long, — 
E'er  yet  those  hues  had  left  or  sky  or  hill, 
One  peak  with  pearling  top  confess'd  thy  coming. 
There  didst  thou  pause  awhile,  as  inly  musing 
O'er  realm  so  fair !     And,  first,  thy  rays  fell  partial 
On  many  a  scatter'd  object,  here  and  there ; 
Edging  or  tipping,  with  fantastic  gleam, 
The  sword-like  aloe,  or  the  tent-roof'd  pine, 
Or  adding  a  yet  paler  pensiveness 
To  the.  pale  olive-tree ;  or,  yet  more  near  us, 
Were  flickering  back  from  wall  reticulate' 
Of  ruin  old.     But  when  that  orb  of  thine 
Had  clomb  to  the  mid-concave,  then  broad  light 


Was  flung  around  o'er  all  those  girding  cliffs 
And  groves,  and  villages,  and  fortress  towers, 
And  the  far  circle  of  that  lake-like  sea, 
Till  the  whole  grew  to  one  expanded  sense 
Of  peacefulness,  one  atmosphere  of  love, 
Where  the  soul  breathed  as  native,  and  mere  body 

Sublimed  to  spirit She,  too,  stood  beside  us, 

Our  human  type  of  thee ;  the  pure,  the  peaceful, 

The  gentle, — potent  in  her  gentleness  ! 

And,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  thy  meek  glory, 

In  the  fond  aspiration  of  a  heart, 

Which  prized  all  beauty  and  all  sanctity  ; 

We  saw,  and  loved  to  see,  thy  sainting  ray 

Fall,  as  in  fondness,  on  her  upturn'd  brow, 

Serene, — like  it.     Alas  !  in  how  brief  space 

Coldly  to  glitter  on  her  marble  tomb  ! 

She  lies  in  her  own  land;  far  from. the  scene 
Of  that  fair  eve  ;  but  thou,  its  fairer  part, 
Thou  moon  !  art  here  ;  and  now  we  gaze  on  thee 
To  think  on  her  ;  if  still  in  sorrow,  yet 
Not  without  hope ;  and,  for  the  time  to  come, 
Though  dear  to  us  thy  light  hath  ever  been, 
Shall  love  thee  yet  the  more  for  her  sweet  sake. 


THE  BROKEN  APPOINTMENT. 

I  SOUGHT  at  morn  the  beechen  bower, 

Thy  verdant  grot ; 
It  came, — it  went, — the  promised  hour, — 

I  found  thee  not. 
Light  zephyrs  from  the  quivering  boughs 

Soon  brush'd  the  transient  dew, 
Then  first  I  fear'd  that  Dove's  own  vows 

Were  transient  too ! 

At  eve  I  sought  the  well-known  stream 

Where,  wont  to  rove, 
We  breathed  so  oft,  by  twilight  gleam, 

Our  vows  of  love ; 
I  stopp'd  upon  the  pleasant  brink, 

And  saw  the  wave  glide  past; 
Ah  me  !  I  could  not  help  but  think 

Love  glides  as  fast. 

Then,  all  along  the  moonlight  glen 

So  soft,  so  fair, — 
I  sought  thy  truant  steps  agen, — 

Thou  wert  not  there. 
The  clouds  held  on  their  busy  way 

Athwart  the  waning  moon  ; 
And  such,  I  said,  Love's  fitful  ray, 

And  wanes  as  soon. 

Oh  !  I  had  cull'd  for  thee  a  wreath 

Of  blossoms  rare ; 
But  now  each  floweret  droops  beneath 

The  chill  night-air. 
'Tis  past, — long  past,  our  latest  hour, 

And  yet  thou  art  not  nigh  ; 
Oh !  Love,  thou  art  indeed  a  flower 

Born  but  to  die  ! 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT. 


ONE  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of  the 
present  age  is  EBENEZER  ELLIOTT,  the  "  Corn- 
Law  Rhymer,"  a  poet  whose  productions  are 
distinguished  alike  for  boldness  and  origi- 
nality, a  singular  strength  and  purity  of  dic- 
tion, and  a  warm  sympathy  with  the  oppressed 
masses.  He  is  called  "  the  bard  of  the  peo- 
ple," for  whom  he  has  written,  on  subjects  of 
popular  interest,  and  in  words  they  all  can 
understand. 

Like  most  men  of  moderate  means  and  in 
humble  life,  EBENESER  ELLIOTT  has  felt  the 
heavy  and  unequal  pressure  of  the  laws, 
especially  of  those  commercial  restrictions  by 
which  full  twenty  per  cent,  is  added  to  the 
price  of  bread,  turning  the  sweat  of  the  poor 
into  gold  for  the  rich.  As  is  commonly  the 
case  with  men  who  devote  their  chief  attention 
to  some  particular  evil,  he  has  doubtless  mag- 
nified the  importance  of  the  bread-tax,  and 
attributed  to  it  more  than  a  due  share  of  the 
general  suffering.  1  do  not,  however,  well 
understand  this  subject;  and  it  is  enough  for 
my  present  purpose  to  remark,  that  the  "  Poet 
of  the  Poor,"  uniting  with  his  more  sacred 
functions  those  of  the  orator,  has  exercised  in 
England  a  greater  influence  against  the  Corn 
Laws,  whatever  may  be  their  true  character, 
than  any  other  person  unconnected  with  the 
administration  of  public  affairs. 

Of  the  history  of  ELLIOTT,  more  than  is 
shown  in  his  writings,  I  know  but  little.  He 
was  born  at  Masborough,  near  Sheffield,  in 
1781.  His  father  was  a  Presbyterian,  rigid 
and  formal,  without  affection  for  the  religious 
establishment  or  the  government,  Our  poet, 
in  his  boyhood,  had  few  companionships. 
He  learned  nothing  with  facility  from  books. 
He  was  thought  too  dull  to  profit  by  instruc- 
tion, and  his  education  was  neglected.  But 
he  was  quick  to  observe,  and  had  an  ardent 
love  of  nature. 

When  he  was  about  fifteen,  a  Cameronian 
clergyman  bequeathed  to  his  father  a  library 
containing  many  valuable  works.  With  these, 
or  with  so  many  as  were  worth  reading,  he 
soon  became  familiar.  He  boasts  that  he  has 
deeply  studied  all  the  really  good  literature 
174 


of  the  language,  and  that  he  has  never  read 
to  the  end  a  worthless  book.  His  mind  and 
his  style  are  fashioned  by  the  great  masters 
of  thought  and  expression.  He  is  sometimes 
harsh  and  coarse,  but  he  is  never  careless. 
Efforts  to  be  refined  too  often  induce  effemi- 
nacy. He  has  no  such  fault.  He  is  an  ar- 
dent, independent  thinker,  and  he  utters  his 
opinions  with  force  and  directness,  never  dis- 
carding a  word  because  it  is  too  strong. 

Among  his  longer  poems,  not  included  in  this 
volume,  are  Spirits  and  Men,  an  antediluvian 
epic,  They  Met  Again,  Withered  Wild  Flow- 
ers, and  several  dramas.  His  dramatic  pieces 
are  not  his  best,  though  Bothwell,  which  I 
have  quoted,  is  a  fine  fragment.  One  of  his 
plays  is  entitled  Kerhonah ;  the  scene  is  in 
Connecticut,  and  among  the  dramatis  personae 
are  the  regicides  WTard  and  Goffe,  and  the 
learned  and  pious  ELIOT,  well  named  "Apostle 
of  the  Indians,"  who  is  introduced  as  the  lover 
of  some  dusky  princess.  The  poet  should  have 
better  learned  the  missionary,  whose  character 
was  one  of  the  purest  and  sublimest  in  history. 

ELLIOTT  was  for  a  long  time  neglected. 
His  subjects,  like  those  of  CRABBE,  whom  in 
many  ways  he  is  like,  are  of  a  homely  sort, 
emphatically  human,  such  as,  for  some  rea- 
son, the  popular  taste  does  not  readily  approve. 
He  gives  simple,  earnest,  and  true  echoes  of 
the  affections.  His  poems,  aside  from  their 
political  character,  breathe  the  spirit  of  a  kind 
of  primitive  life,  unperverted,  unhackneyed, 
and  fresh  as  the  dews  on  his  own  hawthorn. 
CARLYLE,  BULWER,  and  other  critics,  seeing 
in  him  incontestable  signs  of  genius,  at  length 
handed  him  up  to  fame.  Those  who  were 
most  opposed  to  his  politics,  recognised  him 
as  a  poet ;  society  seemed  to  be  ashamed  of 
the  indifference  with  which  it  had  treated 
him ;  and  his  works  rose  rapidly  in  the  popu- 
lar estimation.  He  takes  rank  now  among 
the  first  of  the  living  poets  of  England. 

Mr.  ELLIOTT  is  more  than  sixty  years  of 
age.  He  has  been  for  many  years  a  steel 
refiner  and  iron  merchant  at  Sheffield,  where 
he  is  much  respected  for  his  high  qualities  as 
a  man, 


EBENEZER  'ELLIOTT. 


175 


BOTHWELL.— A  DRAMATIC   POEM. 

SCENE — Inside  of  a  dungeon,  in  a  fortress  on 
the  coast  of  Norway.  BOTHWELL  sleeping. 
RHINVALT  gazing  through  a  barred  window 
on  the  rocks,  and  stormy  sea  below. 

Rhin.  Splendour  in  heaven,  and  horror  on  the 

main  ! 

Sunshine  and  storm  at  once — a  troubled  day. 
Clouds  roll  in  brightness,  and  descend  in  rain. 
How  the  waves  rush  into  the  rocky  bay, 
Shaking  the  eternal  barriers  of  the  land ! 
And  ocean's  face  is  like  a  battle  plain, 
Where  giant  demons  combat  hand  to  hand ; 
While,  as  their  voices  sink  and  swell  again, 
Peace,  listening  on  the  rainbow,  bends  in  pain. 
Where  is  the  voice,  whose  stillness  man's  heart 

hears, 

Like  dream'd-of  music,  wordless,  soft,  and  low  1 
The  voice,  which  dries  on  sorrow's  cheek  her  tears, 
Or,  lest  she  perish,  bids  the  current  flow  1 
That  voice  the  whirlwind  in  his  rage  reveres ; 
It  bids  the  blast  a  tranquil  sabbath  keep : 
Lonely  as  death,  harmonious  as  the  spheres, 
It  whispers  to  the  wildness  of  the  deep, 
Till,  calm  as  cradled  babe,  the  billows  sleep. 
Oh,  careless  of  the  tempest  in  his  ire, 
Blush,  ruby  glow  of  western  heaven  !     Oh,  cast 
I    The  hue  of  roses,  steep'd  in  liquid  fire, 
|     On  ocean  in  his  conflict  with  the  blast, 
I     And  quiver  into  darkness,  and  retire, 
|     And  let  wild  day  to  calmest  night  subside; 
!     Let  the  tired  sailor  from  his  toil  respire, 
[    The  drench'd  flag  hang,  unmoving,  o'er  the  tide, 
And  pillovv'd  on  still  clouds,  the  whirlwind  ride  ! 
Then,  Queen  of  Silence,  robe  thee,  and  arise, 
And,  through  the  barr'd  loop  of  this  dungeon  old, 
Visit,  once  more,  its  inmate's  blasted  eyes! 
Let  him  again,  though  late,  thy  light  behold  ! 
Soulless,  not  sightless,  have  his  eyeballs  roll'd, 
Alike,  in  light  and  darkness,  desolate. 
The  storm  beat  on  his  heart — he  felt  no  cold; 
Summer  look'd  on  him,  from  heaven's  fiery  gate — 
Shivering,  he  scowl'd,  and  knew  not  that  he  scowl'd. 
Unweeping,  yet  perturb' d  :  his  bed  a  stone ; 
Bonds  on  his  body — on  his  mind  a  spell : 
Ten  years  in  solitude,  (yet  not  alone,) 
And  conscious  only  to  the  inward  hell; 
Here  hath  it  been  his  hideous  lot  to  dwell. 
But  heav'n  can  bid  the  spirit's  gloom  depart, 
Can  chase  from  his  torn  soul  the  demon  fell, 
And  whispering,  find  a  listener  in  his  heart. 
Oh,  let  him  weep  again  !  then,  tearless  dwell, 
In  his  dark,  narrow  home,  unrung  by  passing  bell ! 
[A  long  pause.     Loud  thunder  ,•  and  after 

an  interval,  thunder  heard  remote.'] 
The  storm  has  ceased.     The  sun  is  set ;  the  trees 
Are  fain  to  slumber;  and,  on  ocean's  breast, 
How  softly,  yet  how  solemnly,  the  breeze,  „ 
With  unperceived  gradation,  sinks  to  rest! 
No  voice,  no  sound  is  on  the  ear  impress'd ; 
Twilight  is  weeping  o'er  the  pensive  rose; 
The  stoat  slumbers,  coil'd  up  in  his  nest ! 
The  grosbeak  on  the  owl's  perch  seeks  repose ; 


And  o'er  the  heights,  behold  !  a  pale  light  glows. 
Waked  by  the  bat,  up-springs  the  startled  snake ; 
The  cloud's  edge  brightens — lo,  the  moon  !  and 

grove, 

And  tree,  and  shrub,  bath'd  in  her  beams,  awake, 
With  tresses  cluster'd  like  the  locks  of  love. 
Behold  !  the  ocean's  tremor  !  slowly  move 
The  cloud-like  sails;  and,  as  their  way  they  urge, 
Fancy  might  almost  deem  she  saw,  above,  [surge, 
The  streamer's  chasten'd  hues ;  bright  sleeps  the 
And  dark  the  rocks,  o.i  ocean's  glittering  verge. 
Now  lovers  meet,  and  labour's  task  is  done. 
Now  stillness  hears  the  breathing  heifer.     Now 
Heavens  azure  deepens  ;  arid,  where  rock-rills  run, 
Rest  on  the  shadowy  mountain's  airy  brow 
Clouds  that  have  taken  their  farewell  of  the  sun ; 
While  calmness,  reigning  o'er  that  wintry  clime, 
Pauses  and  listens  ; — hark  !  the  evening  gun  ! 
Oh,  hark  ! — the   sound  expires  !    and  silence  is 

sublime. 

Moonlight  o'er  ocean's  stillness !  on  the  crest 
Of  the  poor  maniac,  moonlight ! — He  is  calm  ; 
Calmer  he  soon  will  be  in  endless  rest : — 
Oh,  be  thy  coolness  to  his  brow  as  balm,   [breast ! 
And  breathe,  thou  fresh  breeze,  on  his  burning 
For  memory  is  returning  to  his  brain ; 
The  dreadful  past,  with  worse  than  wo  impress'd ; 
And  torturing  time's  eternity  of  pain  ; 
The  curse  of  mind  returns !  Oh  take  it  back  again  ! 
[A  long  pause,  during  which  he  bends 

anxiously  over  Bothwell.] 
Alas  !  how  flutteringly  he  draws  his  breath  ! 

Both.  My  blessed  Mary  ! 

Rhin.  Calmer  he  appears — 

Sad,  fatal  symptom  !  swift  approaches  death. 

Both.  Mary  !  a  hand  of  fire  my  bosom  sears. — 
Oh  do  not  leave  me  ! — Heavenly  Mary  ! — years, 
Ages  of  torture  pass'd,  and  thou  earnest  not ; 
I  waited  still,  and  watch'd,  but  not  in  tears ; 
I  could  not  weep ;  mine  eyes  are  dry  and  hot, 
And  long,  long  since,  to  shed  a  tear  forgot,  [gone  ! 
A   word !    though  it  condemn  me  ! — stay  !  she's 
Gone  !  and  to  come  no  more  !  [He  faints.] 

Rhin.  Ah,  is  it  so? 

His  pilgrimage  is  o'er,  his  task  is  done ; 
How  grimly  still  he  lies !  yet  his  eyes  glow, 
As  with  strange  meaning.     Troubled  spirit,  go  ! 
How  threateningly  his  teeth  are  clench'd  !  how  fast 
He  clutches  his  grasp'd  hair  ! — hush  ! — breathless  1 

No! 

Life  still  is  here,  though  withering  hope  be  past ; 
Come,  bridegroom  of  despair !   and  be  this  sigh 
his  last. 

Both.  Where  am  I  ?     What  art  thou  ? 

Rhin.  Call  me  a  friend, 

And  this  a  prison. 

Both.  Voice  of  torture,  cease  I—- 

Oh, it  returns! — terrific  vision,  end! — 
When  was  it?      Yesterday?   no  matter — peace! 
I  do  remember,  and  too  well,  too  well ! 

Rhin.  How  is  it  with  thee  ? 

Both.  Why  wilt  thou  offend  ? — 

Ha !  all  ye  fiends  of  earth,  and  ye  of  hell, 
I  surely  am  awake !     Thine  angel  send,      [spell ! 
Thou,  king  of  terrors  call'd,  and  break  this  hideous 


176 


EBENEZEK    ELLIOTT. 


Rhin.  A  tear  ?  and  shed  by  thec  1 

Both.  I  breathed  in  flame  ; 

The  sleepless  worm  of  wrath  was  busy  here ; 
When — ah,  it  was  a  dream  ! — my  lady  came, 
Lovely  and  wan  in  wo,  with  the  big  tear 
To  cool  my  fever'd  soul.     In  love  and  fear, 
O'er  me  she  bent,  as  at  the  hermitage, 
When  (maim'd  in  conflict  with  the  mountaineer) 
She  kiss'd  my  wounds,  while  Darnley  swell'd  with 

rage; 

Tears  only  !  not  a  word !  she  fled ! — and  I  am  here. 
She  fled  ;  and  then,  within  a  sable  room, 
Methought  I  saw  the  headsman  and  the  axe ; 
And  men  stood  round  the  block,  with  brows  of 

gloom, 

Gazing,  yet  mute,  as  images  of  wax ; 
And,  while  the  victim  moved  to  meet  her  doom, 
All  wept  for  Mary  Stuart.     Pale,  she  bent, 
As  when  we  parted  last ;  yet  towards  the  tomb 
Calmly  she  look'd,  and  smiling,  prayers  up  sent 
To  pitying  Heaven.     A  deep  and  fearful  boom 
Of  mutter'd  accents  rose,  when  to  the  ground 
The  sever'd  head  fell  bleeding !  and,  aghast, 
Horror  on  horror  stared.     And  then  a  sound 
Swell'd,  hoarsely  yelling,  on  the  sudden  blast, 
As  of  a  female  voice  that  mimick'd  wo ; 
But,  as  above  that  hall  of  death  it  pass'd, 
'T  was  changed  into  a  laugh,  wild,  sullen,  low,  [cast, 
Like  a  fiend's  growl,  who,  from  heaven's  splendour 
Quaffs  fire  and  wrath,  where  pain's  red  embers  glow. 
Do  I  not  know  thee  1     I'm  forgetful  grown  : 
Where  did  I  see  thee  first? 

Rhin.  Here,  even  here ; 

Thy  ten  years'  comrade — still  to  thee  unknown. 
In  all  that  time  thou  didst  not  shed  a  tear 
Until  this  hour.     Raving,  with  groan  on  groan, 
Thou  speak'st  of  more  than  horror,  and  thy  moan 
Was  torture's  music.     O'er  thy  forehead  hot 
Thine  hands  were  clasp'd ;  and  still  wast  thou  alone, 
Brooding  o'er  things  that  have  been,  and  are  not, 
Though  I  was  with  thee,  almost  turn'd  to  stone, 
Here,  where  I  pined  for  twenty  years  before 
Thy  coming. 

Both.  Thirty  years  a  prisoner  ! 

Here,  didst  thou  say  ? 

Rh'n.  Ah,  thirty  years  and  more. 

My  wife  ! — Oh  never  may  I  look  on  her ! 
My  children ! 

Both.  Didst  thou  spill  man's  blood ;'  or  why? 

Rhin.  I  spilt  man's  blood  in  battle.  Oh,  no  more, 
Liberty,  shall  I  breathe  thy  air  on  high 
Where  the  cloud  travels,  or  along  the  shore 
When  the  waves  frown,  like  patriots  sworn  to  die ! 
I  met  the  oppressors  of  my  native  land,        [afar,) 
(Wide  waved  their  plumes  o'er  Norway's  wilds 
I  met  them,  breast  to  breast,  and  hand  to  hand, 
O'ercome,  not  vanquish'd,  in  the  unequal  war : 
And  this  is  Freedom's  grave. 

Both.  Freedom  ?     Thou  fool, 

Deserving  chains  !     Freedom  1 — a  word  to  scare 
The  sceptred  babe.     Of  thy  own  dream  thou  tool 
And  champion,  white  in  folly  !     From  me  far 
Be  rant  like  thine — of  sound  a  senseless  jar. 

Rhin.  Say,  who  art  thou  that  ravest  of  mur- 
der'd  kings, 


And  darest,  before  her  champion  vow'd,  profane 
The  name  of  Freedom  ?     Long  forgotten  things 
To  my  soul  beckon ;  and  my  hand  would  fain 
(Stung  by  thy  venon)  grasp  a  sword  again, 
In  battle  with  these  tyrants  !     Gone  1 — alas ! 
'Tis  the  death-rattle  in  the  throat — his  pain 
Draws  to  a  close.     Again  ?     Dark  spirit,  pass  ! 

Both.  Lift,  lift  me  up  !  that  on  my  burning  brain 
The  pallid  light  may  shine !  and  let  me  see 
Once  more  the  ocean.  Thanks  !  Hail,  placid  deep ! 
Oh,  the  cold  light  is  comfort !  and  to  me 
The  freshness  of  the  breeze  comes  like  sweet  sleep 
To  him  whose  tears  his  painful  pillow  steep ! 
When  last  I  saw  those  billows  they  were  red. 
Mate  of  my  dungeon  !  know'st  thou  why  I  weep  ? 
My  chariot,  and  my  war-horse,  and  my  bed, 
Ocean,  before  me  swells,  in  all  its  glory  spread 
Lovely  !  still  lovely  Nature !  and  a  line 
Of  quivering  beams,  athwart  the  wavy  space, 
Runs  like  a  beauteous  road  to  realms  divine, 
Ending  where  sea  and  stooping  heaven  embrace. 
Crisp'd  with  glad  smiles  is  ocean's  aged  face; 
Gemm'd  are  the  fingers  of  his  wrinkled  hand. 
Like  glittering  fishes,  in  the  wanton  race, 
The  little  waves  leap  laughing  to  the  land, 
Light  following  light — an  everlasting  chase. 
Lovely,  still  lovely  !  chaste  moon,  is  thy  beam 
Now  laid  on  Jedburgh's  mossy  walls  asleep, 
Where  Mary  pined  for  me ;  or  dost  thon  gleam 
O'er  Stirling,  where  I  first,  in  transport  deep, 
Kiss'd  her  bless'd  hand,  when  Darnley  bade  her 

weep; 

Or  o'er  Linlithgow  and  the  billows  blue, 
Where  (captured  on  the  forest-waving  steep) 
She  almost  fear'd  my  love,  so  dear  and  true ; 
Or  on  that  sad  field,  where  she  could  but  look  adieu'! 
Rhin.  Weep  on !  if  thou,  indeed,  art  he  whose 

fame 

Hath  pierced  the  oblivion  even  of  this  tornb, 
Where  life  is  buried,  and  whose  fearful  name 
Amazement  loves  to  speak,  while  o'er  thy  doom, 
Trembling,  he  weeps.     Did  she,  whose  charms 

make  tame 

All  other  beauty,  Scotland's  matchless  Queen, 
Creation's  wonder,  on  that  wither'd  frame, 
Enamour'd  smile  ?  Sweet  tears  there  are,  I  ween; 
Speak  then  of  her,  where  tears  are  shed  more  oft 

than  seen. 
Both.  Perhaps  the  artist  might,  with  cunning 

hand, 

Mimic  the  morn  on  Mary's  lip  of  love ; 
And  fancy  might  before  the  canvass  stand, 
And  deem  he  saw  the  unreal  bosom  move,  [glows 
But  who  could  paint  her  heavenly  soul,  which 
With  more  than  kindness — the  soft  thoughts  that 

rove 

Over  the  moonlight  of  her  heart's  repose — 
The  wish  to  hood  the  falcon,  spare  the  dove, 
Destroy  the  thorn,  and  multiply  the  rose? 
Oh,  hadst  thou  words  of  fire,  thou  couldst  not 

paint 

My  Mary  in  her  majesty  of  mind, 
Expressing  half  the  queen  and  half  the  saint! 
Her  fancy,  wild  as  pinions  of  the  wind, 
Or  sky-ascending  eagle,  that  looks  down, 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT. 


177 


Calm,  on  the  homeless  cloud  he  leaves  behind ; 
Yet  beautiful  as  freshest  flower  full  blown, 
That  bends  beneath  the  midnight  dews  reclined  ; 
Or  yon  resplendent   path,  o'er  ocean's  slumber 

thrown. 
'Twas  such  a  night — Oh,  never,  bless'd  thought, 

depart ! — 

When  Mary  utter'd  first,  in  words  of  flame, 
The  love,  the  guilt,  the  madness  of  her  heart, 
While  on  my  bosom  burn'd  her  cheek  of  shame. 
Thy  blood  is  ice,  and  therefore,  thou  wilt  blame 
The  queen,  the  woman,  the  adulterous  wife, 
The  hapless,  and  the  fair ! — Oh,  but  her  name 
Needs  not  thy  mangling !  Her  disastrous  life 
Needs  not  thy  curse !  Spare,  slanderer,  spare  her 

fame ! 

Then  wpre  the  heavens,  as  now,  the  clouded  veil ; 
Yet  mark'd  I  well  her  tears,  and  that  wan  smile 
So  tender,  so  confiding,  whose  sweet  tale, 
By  memory  told,  can  even  now  beguile 
My  spirit  of  its  gloom !  for  then  the  pale 
Sultana  of  the  night  her  form  display'd, 
Pavilion'd  in  the  pearly  clouds  afar, 
lake  brightness  sleeping,  or  a  naked  maid, 
In  virgin  charms  unrivall'd ;  while  each  star, 
Astonish'd  at  her  beauty,  seem'd  to  fade — 
Each  planet,  envy -stung,  to  turn  aside — 
Veiling  their  blushes  with  their  golden  hair. 
Oh  !  moment  rich  in  transport,  love,  and  pride ! 
Big,  too,  with  wo,  with  terror,  with  despair ! 
ji     While,  wrestling  thus,  I  strive  to  choak  my  groan, 
And,  what  I  cannot  shun,  may  learn  to  bear, 
That  moment  is  immortal,  and  my  own ! 
Fate  from  that  grasp  that  moment  tear  ! 
That  moment  for  an  age  of  might  atone ! 
Poor  Rizio  of  the  flute,  whom  few  bewail ;    [hate. 
Worth  Mary's  tears,   was  well  worth   Darnley's 
Jealous  again  !  Why,  who  could  e'er  prevail, 
Monarch  or  slave,  in  conflict  with  his  fate  1 

Behold  the  King  of Hear  it  not,  chaste  night ! 

King !  keep  no  monkey  that  has  got  a  tail ! 
In  nought  but  things  emasculate  delight ! 
Let  no  fly  touch  her,  lest  it  be  a  male ! 
And,  like  the  devil,  infest  a  paradise  in  spite ! 

Pride,  without  honour!  body,  without  soul ! 
The  heartless  breast  a  brainless  head  implies. 
If  men  are  mad,  when  passion  scorns  control, 
And  self-respect  with  shame  and  virtue  flies,  [rude ! 
Darnley   hath  long   been   mad. — Thou   coxcomb 
Thou  reptile,  shone  on  by  an  angel's  eyes ! 
Intemperate  brute,  with  meanest  thoughts  imbued  ! 
Dunghill !  wouldst  thou  the  sun  monopolize  1 
Wouldst  thou  have  Mary's  love  1  for  what  1     In- 
gratitude. 

The  quivering  flesh,  though  torture-torn,  may  live; 
But  souls,  once  deeply  wounded,  heal  no  more: 
And  deem'st  thou  that  scorn'd  woman  can  forgive  1 
Darnley,  thou  dream'st,  but  not  as  heretofore  ! 
Mary's  feign'd  smile,  assassin-like,  would  gore ; 
There  is  a  snake  beneath  her  sorrowing  eye  ; 
The  crocodile  can  weep :  with  bosom  frore 
O'er  thy  sick-bed  she  heaves  a  traitorous  sigh : 
Ah,  do  not  hope  to  live !  she  knows  that  thou 
shall  die. 

23 


Yet  Mary  wept  for  Darnley,  while  she  kiss'd 
His  murderer's  cheek  at  midnight.    Sad  was  she; 
And  he,  who  then  had  seen  her,  would  have  miss'd 
The  rose  that  was  not  where  it  wont  to  be, 
Or  marvell'd  at  its  paleness.     None  might  see 
The  heart,  but  on  the  features  there  was  wo. 
Then  put  she  on  a  mask,  and  gloomily — 
For  dance  and  ball  prepared — arose  to  go : 
"  Spare,  spare  my  Darnley's  life  !"  she  said — but 
mean'd  she  so  ? 

Now  bends  the  murderer — Mark  his  forehead  fell ! 
What  says  the  dark  deliberation  there  1 — 
Now  bends  the  murderer — Hark ! — it  is  a  knell ! — 
Hark ! — sound  or  motion  1  'T  was  his  cringing  hair. 
Now  bends  the  murderer — wherefore  doth  he  start  1 
'T  is  silence — silence  that  is  terrible  ! 
When  he  hath  business,  silence  should  depart, 
And  maniac  darkness,  borrowing  sounds  from  hell, 
Suffer  him  not  to  hear  his  throbbing  heart  ] — 
Now  bends  the  murderer  o'er  the  dozing  king, 
Who,  like  an  o'er-gorged  serpent,  motionless, 
Lies  drunk  with  wine,  a  seeming-senseless  thing  ; 
Yet  his  eyes  roll  with  dreadful  consciousness) 
Thickens  his  throat  in  impotent  distress, 
And  his  voice  strives  for  utterance,  while  that  wretch 
Doth  on  his  royal  victim's  bosom  press 
His  knee,  preparing  round  his  neck  to  stretch 
The  horrible  cord.     Lo!  dark  as  the  alpine  vetch, 
Stares  his  wide-open,  blood-shot,  bursting  eye, 
And  on  the  murderer  flashes  vengeful  fire  ; 
While  the  black  visage,  in  dire  agony, 
Swells,  like  a  bloated  toad  that  dies  in  ire, 
And  quivers  into  fixedness ! — On  high 
Raising  the  corpse,  forth  into  the  moonlight  air 
The  staggering  murderer  bears  it  silently, 
Lays  it  on  earth,  sees  the  fix'd  eye-ball  glare, 
And  turns,  affrighted,  from  the  lifeless  stare. 
Ho !  fire  the  mine  !  and  let  the  house  be  rent 
To  atoms ! — that  dark  guile  may  say  to  fear, 
"  Ah,  dire  mischance  !   mysterious  accident ! 
Ah,  would  it  were  explain'd  !"  ah,  would  it  were  ! 
Up,  up,  the  rushing,  red  volcano  went, 
And  wide  o'er  earth,  and  heav'n,  and  ocean  flash'd 
A  torrent  of  earth-lightning  skyward  sent; 
O'er  heaven,  earth,  sea,  the  dread  explosion  crash'd ; 
Then,clattering  far,  the  downward  fragmentsdash'd. 
Roar'd  the  rude  sailor  o'er  the  illumined  sea. 
"  Hell  is  in  Scotland  !"     Shudder'd  Roslin's  hall, 
Low'd  the  scared  heifer  on  the  distant  lea, 
Trembled  the  city,  shriek'd  the  festival, 
Paused  the  pale  dance  from  his  delighted  task, 
Quaked  every  masker  of  the  splendid  ball ; 
Raised  hands,  unanswer'd  questions  seem'd  to  ask  ; 
And  there  was  one  who  lean'd  against  the  wall, 
Close  pressing  to  her  face,  with  hands  convulsed, 

her  mask. 

And  night  was  after  that,  but  blessed  night 
Was  never  more !  for  thrilling  voices  cried 
To  the  dreaming  sleep,  on  the  watcher's  pale 

affright, 

"  Who  murder'd  Darnley  1     Who  the  match  ap- 
plied ? 

Did  Hepburn  murder  Darnley  ?" — "Fool !"  replied 
Accents  responsive,  fang'd  with  scorpion  sting, 
In  whispers  faint,  while  all  was  mute  beside, 


179 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT. 


"'Twas  the  Queen's  husband  that  did  kill  the 

King!" 
And  o'er  the  murderer's  soul  swept  horror's  freezing 

wing. 
Rhin.  Terrific,  but  untrue  ! — Have  such  things 

been? 

Thy  looks  say  ay  !  and  dire  are  they  to  me. 
Unhappy  King  !  and  more  unhappy  Queen  ! 
But  who  the  murderer  1 

Both.   What  is  that  to  thee  ?  [chain, 

Thinkest  thou  /  kill'd  him  1     Come  but  near  my 
Thou  base  suspector  of  scathed  misery  ! 
And  I  will  dash  the  links  into  thy  brain, 
And  lay  thee  (champion  of  the  can't-be-free !) 
There,  for  thy  insolence — never  toTise  again. 

[He  faints.} 
Rain.  Alas!  how  farest  thou  now  'I     Darkness 

hath  chased 

The  dreadful  paleness  from  thy  face ;  thine  eye, 
Upturn'd,  displays  its  white ;  thy  cheek  is  laced 
With  quivering  tortuous  folds  ;  thy  lip,  awry, 
Snarls,  as  thou  tearest  the  straw ;  the  speechless 

storm 

Frowns  on  thy  brow,  where  drops  of  agony 
Stand  thick  and  beadlike ;  and,  while  all  thy  form 
Is  crumpled  with  convulsion,  threateningly  [worm. 
Thou  breathest,  smiting  the  air,  and  writhing  like  a 
Both.  Treason  in  arms! — Sirs,  ye  are  envious  all. 
To  Mary's  marriage  did  ye  not  consent  ? 
Do  you  deny  your  signatures — this  scrawl 
Of  your  vile  names  1     True,  I  do  not  repent 
That  I  divorced  my  wife  to  wed  the  queen  ; 
True,  I  hate  Mar ;  true,  I  scorn  Huntley's  bawl ; 
True,  I  am  higher  now  than  I  have  been — 
And  will  remain  so,  though  your  heads  should  fall. 
Craig,  of  the  nasal  twang,  who  prayest  so  well  ! 
Glencairn,  of  the  icy  eye,  and  tawny  hide ! 
If  I  am  prouder  than  the  prince  of  hell, 
Are  ye  all  meanness  that  ye  have  no  pride? 
My  merit  is  my  crime.     I  love  my  sword, 
And  that  high  sin  for  which  the  angels  fell ; 
But  still  agrees  my  action  with  my  word; 
That  your's  does  not  so,  let  rebellion  tell. 
Submit !  or  perish  here !  or  elsewhere — by  the  cord. 
My  comrades,  whose  brave  deeds  my  heart  attests, 
Be  jocund  ! — But,  ah,  see  their  trembling  knees  ! 
Their  eyes  are  vanquished — not  by  the  tossing  crests, 
But  by  yon  rag,  the  pestilence  of  the  breeze, 
Painted  with  villanous  horror !  In  their  breasts 
Ardour  and  manliness  make  now  with  fear 
A  shameful  treaty,  casting  all  behests 
That  honour  loves,  into  the  inglorious  rear. 
By  heaven,  their  cowardice  hath  sold  us  here ! 
Ha  !  dastards,  terror-quell'd  as  by  a  charm,    [thee, 
What !  steal  ye  from  the  field  ? — My  sword  for 
Mary  !  add  courage  for  his  cause  !  this  arm 
Shall  now  decide  the  contest ! — Can  it  be  ? 
Did  Lindsay  claim  the  fight  ? — and  still  lives  he  1 
He  lives,  and  I  to  say  it.     Hell's  black  night 
Lower'd  o'er  my  soul,  and  Darnley  scowl'd  on  me, 
And  Mary  would  not  let  her  coward  fight, 
But  bade  him  barter  all  for  infamy  ! 
Dishonour'd,  yet  unburied  !   Morton's  face 
Wrinkled  with  insult;  while,  with  cover'd  brow, 
Bravest  Kirkaldy  mourn'd  a  foe's  disgrace  ; 


And  Murray's  mean  contempt  was  mutter'd  low. 

Pale,  speechless  Mary  wept,  almost  ashamed 

Of  him  she  mourn'd.     Flash'd  o'er  my  cheek  the 

glow 

Of  rage  against  myself;  and  undefamed, 
Worse  than  my  reputation,  and  not  slow, 
I  left  my  soul  behind,  and  fled  in  wordless  wo. 

Then  ocean  was  my  home,  and  I  became 
Outcast  of  human  kind,  making  my  prey 
The  pallid  merchant ;  and  my  wither'd  name 
Was  leagued  with  spoil,  and  havoc,  and  dismay  ; 
Fear'd,  as  the  lightning  fiend,  on  steed  of  flame — 
The  Arab  of  the  sky.     And  from  that  day 
Mary  I  saw  no  more.     Sleepless  desire 
Wept ;  but  she  came  not,  even  in  dreams,  to  say, 
(Until  this  hour,)  "All  hopeless  wretch,  expire!" 

Rhin.  A  troubled  dream  thy  changeful  life  hath 

been 

Of  storm  and  splendour.  Girt  with  awe  and  power, 
A  Thane  illustrious  ;  married  to  a  queen  ; 
Obey'd,  loved,  flatter'd  ;  blasted  in  an  hour ; 
A  homicide  ;  a  homeless  fugitive 
O'er  earth,  to  take  a  waste  without  a  flower ; 
A  pirate  on  the  ocean,  doom'd  to  live 
Like  the  dark  osprey  !   Could  fate  sink  thee  lower  ? 
Defeated,  captured,  dungeon'd,  in  this  tower 
A  raving  maniac ! 

Both.  Ah,  what  next  1  the  gloom 
Of  rayless  fire  eternal,  o'er  the  foam 
Of  torment-uttering  curses,  and  the  boom 
That  moans  through  horror's  everlasting  home  ! 
Wo,  without  hope — immortal  wakefulness — 
The  brow  of  tossing  agony — the  gloam 
Of  flitting  fiends,  who,  with  taunts  pitiless, 
Talk  of  lost  honour,  rancorous,  as  they  roam 
Through  night,  whose  vales  no  dawn  shall  ever 

bless  !— 

Accursed  who  outlives  his  fame  ! — Thou  scene 
Of  my  last  conflict,  where  the  captive's  chain 
Made  me  acquainted  with  despair  !  serene 
Ocean,  thou  mock'st  my  bitterness  of  pain, 
For  thou,  too,  sawest  me  vanquished,  yet  not  slain  ! 
Oh,  that  my  heart's-blood  had  but  stain'd  the  wave, 
That  I  had  plung'd  never  to  rise  again, 
And  sought  in  thy  profoundest  depths  a  grave  ! 

White  billow !  knowest  thou  Scotland  1  did  thy  wet 
Foot  ever  spurn  the  shell  on  her  loved  strand  1 
There  hast  thou  stoop'd,  the  sea-weed  gray  to  fret — 
Or  glaze  the  pebble  with  thy  crystal  hand  ? 
I  am  of  Scotland.     Dear  to  me  the  sand 
That  sparkles  where  my  infant  days  were  nursed ! 
Dear  is  the  vilest  weed  of  that  wild  land 
W7here  I  have  been  so  happy,  so  accursed ! 
Oh,  tell  me,  hast  thou  seen  my  lady  stand 
Upon  the  moonlight  shore,  with  troubled  eye,  [her] 
Looking  towards  Norway  ?    didst  thou  gaze  on 
And  did  she  speak  of  one  far  thence,  and  sigh  ? 
Oh,  that  I  were  with  thee  a  passenger 
To  Scotland,  the  bless'd  Thule,  with  a  sky 
Changeful,  like  woman  !  would,  oh,  would  I  were! 
But  vainly  hence  my  frantic  wishes  fly, 
Who  reigns  at  Holyrood  1     Is  Mary  there  1 
And  does  she  sometimes  shed,  for  him  once  loved, 
a  tear  ? 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT. 


179 


Farewell,  my  heart's  divinity  !     To  kiss 

Thy  sad  lip  into  smiles  of  tenderness  ; 

To  worship  at  that  stainless  shrine  of  bliss ; 

To  meet  the  elysium  of  thy  warm  caress  ; 

To  be  the  prisoner  of  thy  tears ;  to  bless 

Thy  dark  eye's  weeping  passion ;  and  to  hear 

The  word,  or  sigh,  soul-toned,  or  accentless, 

Murmur  for  wie  so  vile,  and  yet  so  dear —  [Fear ! 

Alas!  'tis  mine  no  more  ! — Thou  hast  undone  me, 

Champion  of  freedom,  pray  thee,  pardon  me 
My  laughter,  if  I  now  can  laugh ! — (in  hell 
They  laugh  not) — he  who  doth  now  address  thee 
Is  Hepburn,  Earl  of  Bothwell.    Hark  !  my  knell ! 
The  death-owl  shrieks  it.     Ere  I  cease  to  fetch 
These  pantings  for  the  shroud,  tell  me,  oh  tell ! 
Believest  thou  God  ] — Blow  on  a  dying  wretch, 
Blow,  wind  that  comest  from  Scotland ! — Fare- 

thee-well ! 

The  owl  shrieks — I  shall  have  no  other  passing-bell. 
Rhin.  As  from  the  chill,  bright  ice  the  sunbeam 

flies, 

So  (but  reluctant)  life's  last  light  retires 
From  the  cold  mirror  of  his  closing  eyesc 
He  bids  the  surge  adieu  ! — falls  back — expires ! 
No  passing  bell  1      Yea,  I  that  bell  will  be ; 
Pale  night  shall  hear  the  requiem  of  my  sighs ; 
My  wo-worn  heart  hath  still  some  tears  for  thee ; 
Nor  will  thy  shade  the  tribute  sad  despise. 
Brother,  farewell ! — Ah,  yes  ! — no  voice  replies  ; 
But  my  tears  flow — albeit  in  vain  they  flow — 
For  him  who  at  my  feet  so  darkly  sleeps ; 
And  freedom's  champion,  with  the  locks  of  snow, 
Now  fears  the  form  o'er  which  he  sternly  weeps. 
An  awful  gloom  upon  my  spirit  creeps. 
My  ten  years'  comrade !  whither  art  thou  fled  1 
Thou  art  not  here  !  Thy  lifeless  picture  keeps 
Its  place  before  me,  while,  almost  in  dread, 
I  shrink,  yet  gaze,  and  long  to  share  thy  bed. 

[He  retires  to  a  corner  of  the  dungeon 
farthest  from  the  corpse,  and  there  con- 
tinues to  gaze  upon  it  in  s  lence.~\ 


ON  SEEING  AUDUBON'S 
AMERICA." 


BIRDS  OF 


<*  PAIXTITTG  is  silent  music."     So  said  one 
Whose  prose  is  sweetest  painting.     Audubon  ! 
Thou  Raphael  of  great  Nature's  woods  and  seas ! 
Thy  living  fomis  and  hues,  thy  plants,  thy  trees, 
Bring  deathless  music  from  the  houseless  waste — 
The  immortality  of  truth  and  taste. 
Thou  givest  bright  accents  to  the  voiceless  sod ; 
And  all  thy  pictures  are  mute  hymns  to  God. 
Why  hast  thou  power  to  bear  the  untravell'd  soul 
Through  farthest  wilds,  o'er  ocean's  stormy  roll ; 
And,  to  the  prisoner  of  disease,  bring  home 
The  homeless  birds  of  ocean's  roaring  foam ; 
But  that  thy  skill  might  bid  the  desert  sing 
The  sun-bright  plumage  of  the  Almighty's  wing? 
With  his  own  hues  thy  splendid  lyre  is  strung; 
For  genius  speaks  the  universal  tongue,    [wine — 
"  Come,"  cries  the  bigot,  black  with  pride  and 


"  Come  and  hear  me — the  Word  of  God  is  mine!" 
"  But  I,"  saith  He,  who  paves  with  suns  his  car, 
And  makes  the  storms  his  coursers  from  afar, 
And,  with  a  glance  of  his  all-dazzling  eye, 
Smites  into  crashing  fire  the  boundless  sky — 
"  I  speak  in  this  swift  sea-bird's  speaking  eyes, 
These  passion-shiver'd  plumes,  these  lucid  dyes : 
This  beauty  is  my  language  !  in  this  breeze 
I  whisper  love  to  forests  and  the  seas ; 
I  speak  in  this  lone  flower — this  dew-drop  cold — 
That  hornet's  sting — yon  serpent's  neck  of  gold  : 
These  are  my  accents.     Hear  them  !  and  behold 
How  well  my  prophet-spoken  truth  agrees 
With  the  dread  truth  and  mystery  of  these 
Sad,  beauteous,  grand,  love-warbled  mysteries !" 
Yes,  Audubon  !  and  men  shall  read  in  thee 
His  language,  written  for  eternity  ; 
And  if,  immortal  in  its  thoughts,  the  soul 
Shall  live  in  heaven,  and  spurn  the  tomb's  control, 
Angels  shall  retranscribe,  with  pens  of  fire, 
Thy  forms  of  Nature's  terror,  love,  and  ire, 
Thy  copied   words  of  God — when   death-struck 
suns  expire. 


THE  PRESS. 

GOB  said — "  Let  there  be  light !" 
Grim  darkness  felt  his  might, 

And  fled  away ; 

Then  startled  seas  and  mountains  cold 
Shone  forth,  all  bright  in  blue  and  gold, 

And  cried — "  'Tis  day  !    'tis  day  !" 
"  Hail,  holy  light !"  exclaim'd 
The  thunderous  cloud,  that  flamed 

O'er  daises  white ; 

And  lo !  the  rose,  in  crimson  dress'd, 
Lean'd  sweetly  on  the  lily's  breast ; 

And,  blushing,  murmur'd — "Light!" 
Then  was  the  skylark  born  ; 
Then  rose  the  embattled  corn ; 

Then  floods  of  praise 
Flow'd  o'er  the  sunny  hills  of  noon  ; 
And  then,  in  stillest  night,  the  moon 

Pour'd  forth  her  pensive  lays. 
Lo,  heaven's  bright  bow  is  glad  ! 
Lo,  trees  and  flowers  all  clad 

In  glory,  bloom ! 

And  shall  the  mortal  sons  of  God 
Be  senseless  as  the  trodden  clod, 

And  darker  than  the  tomb? 
No,  by  the  mind  of  man  ! 
By  the  swart  artisan ! 

By  God,  our  Sire  ! 
Our  souls  have  holy  light  within. 
And  every  form  of  grief  and  sin 

Shall  see  and  feel  its  fire. 
By  earth,  and  hell,  and  heaven, 
The  shroud  of  souls  is  riven ! 

Mind,  mind  alone 

Is  light,  and  hope,  and  life,  and  power ! 
Earth's  deepest  night,  from  this  bless'd  hour, 
The  night  of  minds  is  gone  ! 


180 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT. 


«  The  Press  !"  all  lands  shall  sing ; 
The  Press,  the  Press  we  bring, 

All  lands  to  bless  : 
O  pallid  Want !  O  Labour  stark  ! 
Behold,  we  bring  the  second  ark ! 

The  Press  !  the  Press  !  the  Press ! 


THE  DYING  BOY  TO  THE  SLOE  BLOS- 
SOM. 

BEFORE  thy  leaves  thou  comest  once  more, 

White  blossom  of  the  sloe ! 
Thy  leaves  will  come  as  heretofore  ; 
But  this  poor  heart,  its  troubles  o'er, 

Will  then  lie  low. 

A  month  at  least  before  thy  time 

Thou  comest,  pale  flower,  to  me ; 
For  well  thou  knowest  the  frosty  rime 
Will  blast  me  ere  my  vernal  prime, 
No  more  to  be. 

Why  here  in  winter  1     No  storm  lowers 

O'er  Nature's  silent  shroud  ! 
But  blithe  larks  meet  the  sunny  showers, 
High  o'er  the  doom'd  untimely  flowers 

In  beauty  bowed. 

Sweet  violets,  in  the  budding  grove, 
Peep  where  the  glad  waves  run ; 
The  wren  below,  the  thrush  above, 
Of  bright  to-morrow's  joy  and  love 
Sing  to  the  sun. 

And  where  the  rose-leaf,  ever  bold, 
Hears  bees  chant  hymns  to  God, 
The  breeze-bow'd  palm,  moss'd  o'er  with  gold, 
Smiles  on  the  well  in  summer  cold, 
And  daisied  sod. 

But  thou,  pale  blossom,  thou  art  come, 

And  flowers  in  winter  blow, 
To  tell  me  that  the  worm  makes  room 
For  me,  her  brother,  in  the  tomb, 

And  thinks  me  slow. 

For  as  the  rainbow  of  the  dawn 

Foretells  an  eve  of  tears, 
A  sunbeam  on  the  sadden'd  lawn 
I  smile,  and  weep  to  be  withdrawn 

In  early  years. 

Thy  leaves  will  come  !  but  songful  spring 

Will  see  no  leaf"  of  mine ; 
Her  bells  will  ring,  her  bride's-maids  sing, 
When  my  young  leaves  are  withering 

Where  no  suns  shine. 

Oh,  might  I  breathe  morn's  dewy  breath, 
When  June's  sweet  Sabbath's  chime  ! 

But,  thine  before  my  time,  O  death ! 

I  go  where  no  flower  blossometh, 
Before  my  time. 

Even  as  the  blushes  of  the  morn 
Vanish,  and  long  ere  noon 


The  dew-drop  dieth  on  the  thorn, 
So  fair  I  bloom'd ;  and  was  I  born 
To  die  as  soon  ] 

To  love  my  mother  and  to  die — 

To  perish  in  my  bloom ! 
Is  this  my  sad  brief  history  1 — 
A  tear  dropp'd  from  a  mother's  eye 

Into  the  tomb. 

He  lived  and  loved — will  sorrow  say — 

By  early  sorrow  tried  ; 
He  smiled,  he  sigh'd,  he  past  away  ; 
His  life  was  but  an  April  day — 

He  loved  and  died  ! 

My  mother  smiles,  then  turns  away, 

But  turns  away  to  weep: 
They  whisper  round  me — what  they  say 
I  need  not  hear,  for  in  the  clay 

I  soon  must  sleep. 

Oh,  love  is  sorrow  !  sad  it  is 

To  be  both  tried  and  true ; 
I  ever  trembled  in  my  bliss ; 
Now  there  are  farewells  in  a  kiss — 

They  sigh  adieu. 

But  woodbines  flaunt  when  blue-bells  fade, 

Where  Don  reflects  the  skies ; 
And  many  a  youth  in  Shire-cliffs'  shade 
Will  ramble  where  my  boyhood  play'd, 
Though  Alfred  dies. 

Then  panting  woods  the  breeze  will  feel, 

And  bowers,  as  heretofore, 
Beneath  their  load  of  roses  reel ; 
But  I  through  woodbined  lanes  shall  steal 

No  more,  no  more. 

Well,  lay  me  by  my  brother's  side, 
Where  late  we  stood  and  wept ; 

For  I  was  stricken  when  he  died — 

I  felt  the  arrow  as  he  sigh'd 
His  last  and  slept. 


COME  AND  GONE. 

THE  silent  moonbeams  on  the  drifted  snow 

Shine  cold,  and  pale,  and  blue, 
While  through  the  cottage-door  the  yule  log's  glow 
Cast  on  the  iced  oak's  trunk  and  gray  rock's  brow 

A  ruddy  hue. 

The  red  ray  and  the  blue,  distinct  and  fair, 

Like  happy  groom  and  bride, 
With  azured  green,  and  emerald-orange  glare, 
Gilding  the  icicles  from  branches  bare, 

Lie  side  by  side. 

The  door  is  open,  and  the  fire  burns  bright, 

And  Hannah  at  the  door, 
Stands — through  the  clear,  cold  moon'd,  and 

starry  night, 
Gazing  intently  towards  the  scarce-seen  height, 

O'er  the  white  moor. 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT. 


181 


'Tis  Christmas  eve !  and,  from  the  distant  town, 

Her  pale  apprenticed  son 
Will  to  his  heart-sick  mother  hasten  down, 
And  snatch  his  hour  of  annual  transport — flown 

Ere  well  begun. 

The  Holy  Book  unread  upon  his  knee, 

Old  Alfred  watcheth  calm ; 
Till  Edwin  comes,  no  solemn  prayer  pravs  he, 
Till  Edwin  comes,  the  text  he  cannot  see, 

Nor  chant  the  psalm. 

And  comes  he  not?   Yea,  from  the  wind-swept  hill 

The  cottage-fire  he  sees  ; 
While  of  the  past  remembrance  drinks  her  fill 
Crops  childhood's  flowers,  and  bids  the  unfrozen  rill 

Shine  through  green  trees. 

In  thought,  he  hears  the  bee  hum  o'er  the  moor ; 

In  thought,  the  sheep-boy's  call ; 
In  thought,  he  meets  his  mother  at  the  door ; 
In  thought,  he  hears  his  father,  old  and  poor, 

«  Thank  God  for  all." 

His  sister  he  beholds,  who  died  when  he, 

In  London  bound,  wept  o'er 
Her  last  sad  letter ;  vain  her  prayer  to  see 
Poor  Edwin  yet  again : — he  ne'er  will  be 

Her  playmate  more ! 

No  more  with  her  will  hear  the  bittern  boom 

At  evening's  dewy  close ! 

No  more  with  her  will  wander  where  the  broom 
Contends  in  beauty  with  the  hawthorn  bloom 

And  budding  rose ! 

Oh,  love  is  strength !  love,  with  divine  control, 

Recalls  us  when  we  roam! 
In  living  light  it  bids  the  dimm'd  eye  roll, 
And  gives  a  dove's  wing  to  the  fainting  soul, 

And  bears  it  home. 

Home! — that  sweet  word  hath  turn'd  his  pale  lip  red, 

Relumed  his  fireless  eye ; 
Again  the  morning  o'er  his  cheek  is  spread  ; 
The  early  rose,  that  seem'd  for  ever  dead, 

Returns  to  die. 

Home  !  home  ! — Behold  the  cottage  of  the  moor, 

That  hears  the  sheep-boy's  call ! 
And  Hannah  meets  him  at  the  open  door 
With  faint  fond  scream  ;  and  Alfred,  old  and  poor, 

"Thanks  God  for -all!" 

His  lip  is  on  his  mother's;  to  her  breast 

She  clasps  him,  heart  to  heart ; 
His  hands  between  his  father's  hands  are  press' d ; 
They  sob  with  joy,  caressing  and  caressed : 

How  soon  to  part ! 

Why  should  they  know  thatthou  so  soon,  0  Death! 

Wilt  pluck  him,  like  a  weed  ? 
Why  fear  consumption  in  his  quick-drawn  breath  1 
Why  dread  the  hectic  flower,  which  blossometh 

That  worms  may  feed  1 

They  talk  of  other  days,  when,  like  the  birds, 

He  cull'd  the  wild  flower's  bloom, 
And  roam'd  the  moorland,  with  the  houseless  herds ; 


They  talk  of  Jane's  sad  prayer,  and  her  last  words, 
"Is  Edwin  come1?" 

He  wept.     But  still,  almost  till  morning  beamed, 
They  talk'd  of  Jane — then  slept. 

But,  though  he  slept,  his  eyes,  half-open,  gleam'd; 

For  still  of  dying  Jane  her  brother  dream'd, 
And,  dreaming,  wept. 

At  mid-day  he  arose,  in  tears,  and  sought 

The  churchyard  where  she  lies.      [wrought ; 
He   found   her  name   beneath  the   snow-wreath 
Then  from  her  grave  a  knot  of  grass  he  brought, 
With  tears  and  sighs. 

The  hour  of  parting  came,  when  feelings  deep 

In  the  heart's  depth  awake. 
To  his  sad  mother,  pausing  oft  to  weep, 
He  gave  a  token,  which  he  bade  her  keep 

For  Edwin's  sake. 

It  was  a  grassy  sprig,  and  auburn  tress, 

Together  twined  and  tied. 
He  left  them,  then,  for  ever !  could  they  less 
Than  bless  and  love  that  type  of  tenderness  1 — 

Childless  they  died ! 

Long  in  their  hearts  a  cherish'd  thought  they  wore ; 

And  till  their  latest  breath, 

Bless'd  him,  and  kiss'd  his  last  gift  o'er  and  o'er; 
But  they  beheld  their  Edwin's  face  no  more 

In  life  or  death ! 

For  where  the  upheaved  sea  of  trouble  foams, 

And  sorrow's  billows  rave, 
Men,  in  the  wilderness  of  myriad  homes, 
Far  from  the  desert,  where  the  wild  flock  roams, 

Dug  Edwin's  grave. 


FOREST  WORSHIP. 

WITHIN  the  sun-lit  forest, 

Our  roof  the  bright  blue  sky, 
Where  fountains  flow,  and  wild  flowers  blow, 

We  lift  our  hearts  on  high  : 
Beneath  the  frown  of  wicked  men 

Our  country's  strength  is  bowing ; 
But,  thanks  to  God  !  they  can't  prevent 

The  lone  wildflowers  from  blowing  ! 

High,  high  above  the  tree-tops, 

The  lark  is  soaring  free ; 
Where  streams  the  light  through  broken  clouds 

His  speckled  breast  I  see  : 
Beneath  the  might  of  wicked  men 

The  poor  man's  worth  is  dying; 
But,  tharik'd  be  God !  in  spite  of  them, 

The  lark  still  warbles  flying ! 

The  preacher  prays,  "  Lord,  bless  us  !" 

"  Lord,  bless  us  !"  echo  cries  ; 
"  Amen  !"  the  breezes  murmur  low  ; 

"  Amen  !"  the  rill  replies : 
The  ceaseless  toil  of  wo-worn  hearts 

The  proud  with  pangs  are  paying , 
But  here,  O  God  of  earth  and  heaven ! 

The  humble  heart  is  praying  ] 
Q 


182 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT. 


How  softly,  in  the  pauses 

Of  song,  re-echoed  wide, 
The  cushat's  coo,  the  linnet's  lay, 

O'er  rill  and  river  glide  ! 
With  evil  deeds  of  evil  men 

The  affrighted  land  is  ringing ; 
But  still,  O  Lord  !  the  pious  heart 

And  soul-toned  voice  are  singing ! 

Hush  !  hush  !  the  preacher  preacheth  : 

«  Wo  to  the  oppressor,  wo  !" 
But  sudden  gloom  o'ercasts  the  sun 

And  sadden'd  flowers  below  ; 
So  frowns  the  Lord ! — but,  tyrants,  ye 

Deride  his  indignation, 
And  see  not  in  the  gather'd  brow 

Your  days  of  tribulation  ! 

Speak  low,  thou  heaven-paid  teacher ! 

The  tempest  bursts  above  : 
God  whispers  in  the  thunder :  hear 

The  terrors  of  his  love  ! 
On  useful  hands,  and  honest  hearts, 

The  base  their  wrath  are  wreaking ; 
But,  thank'd  be  God  !  they  can't  prevent 

The  storm  of  heaven  from  speaking. 


RIBBLEDIN;  OR  THE  CHRISTENING. 

No  name  hast  thou  !  lone  streamlet 

That  lovest  Rivilin. 
Here,  if  a  bard  may  christen  thee, 

I  '11  call  thee  «  Ribbledin  ;" 
Here,  where  first  murmuring  from  thine  urn, 

Thy  voice  deep  joy  expresses ; 
And  down  the  rock,  like  music,  flows 

The  wild  ness  of  thy  tresses. 

Here,  while  beneath  the  umbrage 

Of  Nature's  forest  bower, 
Bridged  o'er  by  many  a  fallen  birch, 

And  watch' d  by  many  a  flower, 
To  meet  thy  cloud-descended  love, 

All  trembling,  thou  retirest — 
Here  will  I  murmur  to  thy  waves 

The  sad  joy  thou  inspirest. 

Dim  world  of  weeping  mosses  ! 

A  hundred  year  ago, 
Yon  hoary-headed  holly  tree 

Beheld  thy  streamlet  flow: 
See  how  he  bends  him  down  to  hear 

The  tune  that  ceases  never ! 
Old  as  the  rocks,  wild  stream,  he  seems, 

While  thou  art  young  for  ever. 

Wildest  and  lonest  streamlet ! 

Gray  oaks,  all  lichen' d  o'er ! 
Rush-bristled  isles  !  ye  ivied  trunks 

That  marry  shore  to  shore  ! 
And  thou,  gnarl'd  dwarf  of  centuries, 

Whose  snaked  roots  twist  above  me  ! 
Oh  for  the  tongue  or  pen  of  Burns, 

To  tell  you  how  I  love  ye ! 

Would  that  I  were  a  river, 
To  wonder  all  alone 


Through  some  sweet  Eden  of  the  wild, 

In  music  of  my  own  ; 
And  bathed  in  bliss,  and  fed  with  dew, 

Distill'd  o'er  mountains  hoary, 
Return  unto  my  home  in  heaven 

On  wings  of  joy  and  glory  ! 

Or  that  I  were  the  lichen, 

That,  in  this  roofless  cave, 
(The  dim  geranium's  lone  boudoir,) 

Dwells  near  the  shadow'd  wave, 
And  hears  the  breeze-bow'd  tree-top's  sigh, 

While  tears  below  are  flowing, 
For  all  the  sad  and  lovely  things, 

That  to  the  grave  are  going  1 

Oh  that  I  were  a  primrose, 

To  bask  in  sunny  air ! 
Far,  far  from  all  the  plagues  that  make 

Town-dwelling  men  despair ! 
Then  would  I  watch  the  building-birds, 

Where  light  and  shade  are  moving, 
And  lovers'  whisper,  and  love's  kiss, 

Rewards  the  loved  and  loving  ! 

Or  that  I  were  a  skylark 

To  soar  and  sing  above, 
Filling  all  hearts  with  joyful  sounds, 

And  my  own  soul  with  love ! 
Then  o'er  the  mourner  and  the  dead, 

And  o'er  the  good  man  dying, 
My  song  should  come  like  buds  and  flowers, 

When  music  warbles  flying. 

Oh,  that  a  wing  of  splendour, 

Like  yon  wild  cloud,  were  mine ! 
Yon  bounteous  cloud,  that  gets  to  give, 

And  bonows  to  resign  ! 
On  that  bright  wing,  to  climes  of  spring 

I'd  bear  all  wintry  bosoms, 
And  bid  hope  smile  on  weeping  thoughts, 

Like  April  on  her  blossoms ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow,  laughing 

O'er  Rivilin  and  Don, 
When  misty  morning  calleth  up 

Her  mountains,  one  by  one, 
While  glistening  down  the  golden  broom, 

The  gem-like  dew-drop  raineth, 
And  round  the  little  rocky  isles 

The  little  wave  complaineth. 

Oh,  that  the  truth  of  beauty 

Were  married  to  my  rh^me  ! 
That  it  might  wear  a  mountain  charm 

Until  the  death  of  Time  ! 
Then,  Ribbledin  !  would  all  the  best 

Of  sorrow's  sons  and  daughters 
See  truth  reflected  in  my  song, 

Like  beauty  on  thy  waters. 

No  longer,  nameless  streamlet, 

That  marriest  Rivilin! 
Henceforth,  lone  Nature's  devotees 

Would  call  thee  "  Ribbledin," 
Whenever,  listening  where  thy  voice 

Its  first  wild  joy  expresses, 
And  down  the  rocks  all  wildly  flows 

The  wildness  of  thy  tresses. 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT. 


183 


THE  WONDERS  OF  THE  LANE. 

STROJTR  climber  of  the  mountain's  side, 

Though  thou  the  vale  disdain, 
Yet  walk  with  me  where  hawthorns  hide 

The  wonders  of  the  lane. 
High  o'er  the  rushy  springs  of  Don 

The  stormy  gloom  is  roll'd  ; 
The  moorland  heth  not  yet  put  on 

His  purple,  green,  and  gold. 
But  here  the  titling  spreads  his  wing, 

Where  dewy  daises  gleam  ; 
And  here  the  sun-flower  of  the  spring 

Burns  bright  in  morning's  beam. 
To  mountain  winds  the  famish'd  fox 

Complains  that  Sol  is  slow 
O'er  headlong  steeps  and  gushing  rocks 

His  royal  robe  to  throw. 
But  here  the  lizard  seeks  the  sun, 

Here  coils  in  light  the  snake ; 
And  here  the  fire-tuft  hath  begun 

Its  beauteous  nest  to  make. 
Oh  then,  while  hums  the  earliest  bee 

Where  verdure  fires  the"  plain, 
Walk  thou  with  me,  and  stoop  to  see 

The  glories  of  the  lane! 
For,  oh,  I  love  these  banks  of  rock, 
.    This  roof  of  sky  and  tree, 
These  tufts,  where  sleeps  the  gloaming  clock, 

And  wakes  the  earliest  bee  ! 
As  spirits  from  eternal  day 

Look  down  on  earth  secure, 
Gaze  thou,  and  wonder,  and  survey 

A  world  in  miniature  ! 
A  world  not  scorn'd  by  Him  who  made 

Even  weakness  by  his  might; 
But  solemn  in  his  depth  of  shade, 

And  splendid  in  his  light. 
Light !  not  alone  on  clouds  afar 

O'er  storm-loved  mountains  spread, 
Or  widely  teaching  sun  and  star, 

Thy  glorious  thoughts  are  read  ; 
Oh,  no  !  thou  art  a  wondrous  book, 

To  sky,  and  sea,  and  land — 
A  page  on  which  the  angels  look, 

Which  insects  understand  ! 
And  here,  O  light !  minutely  fair, 

Divinely  plain  and  clear, 
Like  splinters  of  a  crystal  hair, 

Thy  bright  small  hand  is  here. 
Yon  drop-fed  lake,  six  inches  wide, 

Is  Huron,  girt  with  wood ; 
This  driplet  feeds  Missouri's  tide — 

And  that,  Niagara's  flood. 
What  tidings  from  the  Andes  brings 

Yon  line  of  liquid  light, 
That  down  from  heaven  in  madness  flings 

The  blind  foam  of  its  might  7 
Do  I  not  hear  his  thunder  roll — 

The  roar  that  ne'er  is  still "? 
'Tis  mute  as  death  ! — but  in  my  soul 

It  roars,  and  ever  will. 
What  forests  tall  of  tiniest  moss 

Clothe  every  little  stone  ! 


What  pigmy  oaks  their  foliage  toss 

O'er  pigmy  valleys  lone  ! 
With  shade  o'er  shade,  from  ledge  to  ledge, 

Ambitious  of  the  sky, 
Thy  feather  o'er  the  steepest  edge 

Of  mountains  mushroom  high. 

0  God  of  marvels !  who  can  tell 
-What  myriad  living  things 

On  these  gray  stones  unseen  may  dwell ; 
What  nations,  with  their  kings'! 

1  feel  no  shock,  I  hear  no  groan, 

While  fate  perchance  o'erwhelms 
Empires  on  this  subverted  stone — 

A  hundred  ruin'd  realms  ! 
Lo !  in  that  dot,  some  mite,  like  «ie, 

Impell'd  by  wo  or  whim, 
May  crawl  some  atom  cliffs  to  see — 

A  tiny  world  to  him  ! 
Lo !  while  he  pauses,  and  admires 

The  works  of  Nature's  might, 
Spurn'd  by  my  foot,  his  world  expires, 

And  all  to  him  is  night ! 
O  God  of  terrors !  what  are  we  1 — 

Poor  insects,  spark'd  with  thought ! 
Thy  whisper,  Lord,  a  word  from  thee 

Could  smite  us  into  nought! 
But  shouldst  thou  wreck  our  father-land, 

And  mix  it  with  the  deep, 
Safe  in  the  hollow  of  thine  hand 

Thy  little  ones  would  sleep. 


HYMN. 

NunsE  of  the  Pilgrim  sires,  who  sought, 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam, 
For  fearless  truth  and  honest  thought, 

A  refuge  and  a  home  ! 
Who  would  not  be-  af  them  or  thee 

A  not  unworthy  son, 
That  hears,  amid  the  chain'd  or  free, 

The  name  of  Washington  ? 

Cradle  of  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Knox  ! 

King-shaming  Cromwell's  throne ! 
Home  of  the  Russells,  Watts,  and  Lockes ! 

Earth's  greatest  are  thine  own  : 
And  shall  thy  children  forge  base  chains 

For  men  that  would  be  free  ] 
No!  by  thy  Elliots,  Hampdens,  Vanes, 

Pyms,  Sydneys,  yet  to  be  ! 

No ! — for  the  blood  which  kings  have  gorged 

Hath  made  their  victims  wise, 
While  every  lie  that  fraud  hath  forged 

Veils  wisdom  from  his  eyes  : 
But  time  shall  change  the  despot's  mood : 

And  mind  is  mightiest  then, 
When  turning  evil  into  good, 

And  monsters  into  men. 

If  round  the  soul  the  chains  are  bound 
That  hold  the  world  in  thrall — 

If  tyrants  laugh  when  men  are  found 
In  brutal  fray  to  fall — 


184 


EBENEZER    ELLIOTT. 


Lord  !  let  not  Britain  arm  her  hands, 

Her  sister  states  to  ban ; 
But  bless  through  her  all  other  lands, 

Thy  family  of  man. 

For  freedom  if  thy  Hampden  fought ; 

For  peace  if  Falkland  fell ; 
For  peace  and  love  if  Bentham  wrote, 

And  Burns  sang  wildly  well — 
Let  knowledge,  strongest  of  the  strong, 

Bid  hate  and  discord  cease ; 
Be  this  the  burde»  of  her  song  : 

"Love,  liberty,  and  peace  !" 

Then,  Father,  will  the  nations  all, 

As  with  the  sound  of  seas, 
In  universal  festival, 

Sing  words  of  joy,  like  these: — 
Let  each  love  all,  and  all  be  free, 

Receiving  as  they  give  ; 
Lord ! — Jesus  died  for  love  and  thee  ! 

So  let  thy  children  live  ! 


THOMAS. 

THOU  art  not  dead,  my  son  !  roy  son  ! 

But  God  hath  hence  removed  thee: 
Thou  canst  not  die,  my  buried  boy, 

While  lives  the  sire  who  loved  thee. 
How  canst  thou  die,  while  weeps  for  thee 

The  broken  heart  that  bore  thee  ; 
And  e'en  the  thought  that  thou  art  not 

Can  to  her  soul  restore  thee  ? 
Will  grief  forget  thy  willingness 

To  run  before  thy  duty  1 
The  love  of  all  the  good  arid  true, 

That  fill'd  thine  eyes  with  beauty  ? 
Thy  pitying  grace,  thy  dear  request, 

When  others  had  offended, 
That  made  thee  look  as  angels  look, 

When  great  good  deeds  are  ended  ? 
The  strength  with  which  thy  soul  sustained 

Thy  woes  and  daily  wasting  1 
Thy  prayer,  to  stay  with  us,  when  sure 

That  thou  from  us  wast  hasting  ? 
And  that  last  smile,  which  seem'd  to  say — 

"  Why  cannot  ye  restore  me  ?" 
Thy  look'd  farewell  is  in  my  heart, 

And  brings  thee  still  before  me. 
What  though  the  change,  the  fearful  change, 

From  thought,  which  left  thee  never, 
To  unremembering  ice  and  clay, 

Proclaim  thee  gone  for  ever  ? 
Thy  half-closed  lids,  thy  upturn'd  eyes, 

Thy  still  and  lifeless  tresses  ; 
Thy  marble  lip,  which  moves  no  more, 

Yet  more  than  grief  expresses ; 
The  sifence  of  thy  coffm'd  snow, 

By  awed  remembrance  cherish'd  ; 
These  dwell  with  me,  like  gather'd  flowers, 

That  in  their  April  perish'd. 
Thou  art  not  gone,  thou  canst  not  go, 

My  bud,  my  blasted  blossom  ! 


The  pale  rose  of  thy  faded  face 

Still  withers  in  my  bosom. 
O  Mystery  of  Mysteries, 

That  took'st  my  poor  boy  from  me ! 
What  art  thou,  Death  ]  all-dreaded  Death  ! 

If  weakness  can  o'ercome  thee  ? 
We  hear  thee  not !  we  see  thee  not, 

E'en  when  thy  arrows  wound  us; 
But,  viewless,  printless,  echoless, 

Thy  steps  are  ever  round,  us. 
Though  more  than  life  a  mystery 

Art  thou,  the  undeceiver, 
Amid  thy  trembling  worshippers 

Thou  seest  no  true  believer. 
No  ! — but  for  life,  and  more  than  life, 

No  fearful  search  could  find  thee  r 
Tremendous  shadow  !  who  is  He 

That  ever  stands  behind  thee  ? 
The  Power  who  bids  the  worm  deny 

The  beam  that  o'er  her  blazes, 
And  veils  from  us  the  holier  light 

On  which  the  seraph  gazes, 
Where  burns  the  throne  of  Him,  whose  name 

The  sunbeams  here  write  faintly  ; 
And  where  my  child  a  stranger  stands 

Amid  the  blest  and  saintly, 
And  sobs  aloud — while  in  his  eyes 

The  tears,  o'erflowing,  gather — 
"  They  come  not  yet ! — until  they  come, 

Heaven  is  not  Heaven,  my  father  ! 
Why  come  they  not  ]  why  comes  not  she 

From  whom  thy  will  removes  me  ? 
Oh,  does  she  love  me — love  me  still  1 

I  know  my  mother  loves  me  ! 
Then  send  her  soon  !  and  with  her  send 

The  brethren  of  my  bosom  ! 
My  sisters  too !  Lord,  let  them  all 

Bloom  round  the  parted  blossom ! 
The  only  pang  I  could  not  bear 

Was  leaving  them  behind  me  : 
I  cannot  bear  it.     Even  in  heaven 
The  tears  of  parting  blind  me  I" 


SLEEP. 

SLEEP  f  to  the  homeless,  thou  art  home  ; 
The  friendless  find  in  thee  a  friend  ; 

And  well  is  he,  where'er  he  roam, 

Who  meets  thee  at  his  journey's  end. 

Thy  stillness  is  the  planet's  speed ; 
Thy  weakness  is  unmeasured  might; 

Sparks  from  the  hoof  of  death's  pale  steed- 
Worlds  flash  and  perish  in  thy  sight. 

The  daring  will  to  thee  alone — 

The  will  and  power  are  given  to  thee — 

To  lift  the  veil  of  the  unknown, 
The  curtain  of  eternity — 

To  look  uncensured,  though  unbidden, 

On  marvels  from  the  seraph  hidden  ! 

Alone  to  be — where  none  have  been  ! 

Alone  to  see — what  none  have  seen! 

And  to  astonish'd  reason  tell 

The  secrets  of  the  Unsearchable ! 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT. 


185 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

A  TOICE  of  grief  and  anger — 

Of  pity  mix'd  with  scorn — 
Moans  o'er  the  waters  of  the  west, 

Through  fire  and  darkness  borne  ; 
And  fiercer  voices  join  it — 

A  wild  triumphant  yell  ! 
For  England's  foes,  on  ocean  slain, 

Have  heard  it  where  they  fell. 

What  is  that  voice  which  cometh 

Athwart  the  spectred  seal 
The  voice  of  men  who  left  their  homes 

To  make  their  children  free ; 
Of  men  whose  hearts  were  torches 

For  freedom's  quenchless  fire ; 
Of  men,  whose  mothers  brave  brought  forth 

The  sire  of  Franklin's  sire. 

They  speak  !— the  Pilgrim  Fathers 

Speak  to  ye  from  their  graves  ! 
For  earth  hath  mutter'd  to  their  bones 

That  we  are  soulless  slaves  ! 
The  Bradfords,  Carvers,  Winslows, 

Have  heard  the  worm  complain, 
That  less  than  men  oppress  the  men 

Whose  sires  were  Pym  and  Vane ! 

What  saith  the  voice  which  boometh 

Athwart  the  upbraiding  waves  1 
"  Though  slaves  are  ye,  our  sons  are  free, 

Then  why  will  you  be  slaves  ] 
The  children  of  your  fathers 

Were  Hampden,  Pym,  and  Vane  !" 
Land  of  the  sires  of  Washington, 

Bring  forth  such  men  again  ! 


A  GHOST  AT  NOON. 

THE  day  was  dark,  save  when  the  beam 

Of  noon  through  darkness  broke ; 
In  gloom  I  sate,  as  in  a  dream, 

Beneath  my  orchard  oak  ; 
Lo  !  splendour,  like  a  spirit,  came, 

A  shadow  like  a  tree  ! 
While  there  I  sat,  and  named  her  name, 

Who  once  sat  there  with  me. 

I  started  from  the  seat  in  fear ; 

I  look'd  around  in  awe ; 
But  saw  no  beauteous  spirit  near, 

Though  ,all  that  was  I  saw  ; 
The  seat,  the  tree,  where  oft,  in  tears, 

She  mourn'd  her  hopes  o'erthrown 
Her  joys  cut  off  in  early  years, 

Like  gather'd  flowers  half-blown. 

Again  the  bud  and  breeze  were  met, 

But  Mary  did  not  come  ; 
And  e'en  the  rose,  which  she  had  set, 

Was  fated  ne'er  to  bloom  ! 
The  thrush  proclaim'd,  in  accents  sweet, 

That  winter's  rain  was  o'er ; 
The  bluebells  throng'd  around  my  feet, 

But  Mary  came  no  more. 
24 


I  think,  I  feel — but  when  will  she 

Awake  to  thought  again  1 
A  voice  of  comfort  answers  me, 

That  God  does  nought  in  vain: 
He  wastes  nor  flower,  nor  bud,  nor  leaf, 

Nor  wind,  nor  cloud,  nor  wave  ; 
And  will  he  waste  the  hope  which  grief 

Hath  planted  in  the  grave  1 


CORN  LAW  HYMN. 

LORD  !  call  thy  pallid  angel — 

The  tamer  of  the  strong  ! 
And  bid  him  whip  with  want  and  wo 

The  champions  of  the  wrong ! 
Oh  say  not  thou  to  ruin's  flood, 

"  Up  sluggard  !  why  so  slow  ?" 
But  alone  let  them  groan, 

The  lowest  of  the  low  ; 
And  basely  beg  the  bread  they  curse, 

Where  millions  curse  them  now  ! 

No ;  wake  not  thou  the  giant 

Who  drinks  hot  blood  for  wine  ; 
And  shouts  unto  the  east  and  west, 

In  thunder-tones  like  thine; 
Till  the  slow  to  move  rush  all  at  once, 

An  avalanche  of  men, 

While  he  raves  over  waves 

That  need  no  whirlwind  then  ; 
Though  slow  to  move,  moved  all  at  ond, 

A  sea,  a  sea  of  men  ! 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  HEART. 

FLOWERS  !  winter  flowers !— the  child  is  dead, 

The  mother  cannot  speak  : 
Oh  softly  couch  his  little  head, 

Or  Mary's  heart  will  break  ! 
Amid  those  curls  of  flaxen  hair 

This  pale  pink  ribbon  twine, 
And  on  the  little  bosom  there 

Place  this  wan  lock  of  mine. 
How  like  a  form  in  cold  white  stone, 

The  coflSn'd  infant  lies  ! 
Look,  mother,  on  thy  little  one  ! 

And  tears  will  fill  thine  eyes. 
She  cannot  weep — more  faint  she  grows, 

More  deadly  pale  and  still : 
Flowers  !  oh,  a  flower  !  a  winter  rose, 

That  tiny  hand  to  fill. 
Go,  search  the  fields  !  the  lichen  wet 

Bends  o'er  the  unfailing  well ; 
Beneath  the  furrow  lingers  yet 

The  scarlet  pimpernel. 
Peeps  not  a  snow-drop  in  the  bower, 

Where  never  froze  the  spring  ? 
A  daisy  ]    Ah !  bring  childhood's  flower ! 

The  half-blown  daisy  bring  ! 
Yes,  lay  the  daisy's  little  head 

Beside  the  little  cheek  ; 
Oh  haste!  the  last  of  five  is  dead ! 

The  childless  cannot  speak  ! 
Q2 


REGINALD    HEBER. 


THIS  eminent  prelate  and  accomplished 
scholar  was  born  at  Malpas,  in  Cheshire,  on 
the  twenty-first  of  April,  1783,  and  in  his 
seventeenth  year  was  sent  to  Brazen  Nose 
College,  Oxford.  While  here  he  obtained 
the  Chancellor's  prize  for  a  Latin  poem,  and 
greatly  distinguished  himself  by  a  poem  in 
English  entitled  Palestine.  Unlike  the  mass 
of  undergraduate  prize  poems,  Palestine  at- 
tained at  once  a  high  reputation  which  pro- 
mises to  be  permanent.  On  receiving  his 
bachelor's  degree,  Mr.  HEBER  travelled  in 
Germany,  Russia,  and  the  Crimea,  and  wrote 
notes  and  observations,  from  which  many 
curious  passages  are  given  in  the  well-known 
journals  of  Dr.  EDWARD  DANIEL  CLARKE. 
On  his  return,  he  published  Europe,  a  Poem, 
and  was  elected  to  a  fellowship  in  All  Soul's 
College.  He  was  soon  after  presented  with 
a  living  in  Shropshire,  and  for  several  years 
devoted  himself  with  great  assiduity  to  his 
profession.  He  however  found  time,  while 
discharging  his  parochial  duties,  to  make 
some  admirable  translations  from  Pindar,  and 
to  write  many  of  his  beautiful  hymns  and 
other  brief  poems,  a  volume  of  which  was 
published  in  1812.  Three  years  afterward, 
he  was  appointed  to  deliver  the  Bampton 
Lectures,  and  fulfilled  the  duty  hi  so  able  a 
manner  as  to  add  greatly  to  his  literary  repu- 
tation. In  1822  he  was  elected  to  the  import- 
ant office  of  preacher  of  Lincoln's  Inn  ;  in  the 
same  year  appeared  his  edition  of  the  works 
of  JEREMY  TAYLOR,  with  notes  and  an  elabo- 
rate memoir;  and  in  1823  he  embarked  for  the 
East  Indies,  having  accepted  the  appointment 
to  the  bishopric  of  the  see  of  Calcutta,  made 
vacant  by  the  death  of  Dr.  Middleton.  He 
held  his  first  visitation  in  the  Cathedral  of  the 
capital  of  Hindostan,  on  Ascension  day,  1824, 
and  from  that  time  devoted  himself  with  great 
earnestness  and  untiring  industry  to  mis- 
sionary labours.  He  left  Calcutta  to  visit 
the  different  presidencies  of  his  extensive 
diocese,  and  while  at  Trichinopoli,  on  the 
second  of  April,  1826,  was  seized  with  an 
apoplectic  fit,  which  on  the  following  day  ter- 
186 


minated  his  life,  in  the  forty-third  year  of  his 
age.  He  was  a  man  of  the  most  elevated 
character,  whose  history  was  itself  a  poem  of 
stateliest  and  purest  tone,  and  most  perfect 
harmony.  In  the  church  he  was  like  ME- 
LANCTHON,  the  healer  of  bruised  hearts,  the 
reconciler  of  all  differences,  the  most  enthu- 
siastic yet  the  most  placid  of  all  the  teachers 
of  religion.  In  society  he  was  a  universal 
favourite,  from  his  *  varied  knowledge,  his ' 
remarkable  colloquial  powers,  and  his  unva- 
rying kindness.  India  never  lost  more  in  a 
single  individual  than  when  HEBER  died. 

The  lyrical  writings  of  HEBER  possess 
great  and  peculiar  merits.  He  is  the  only 
Englishman  who  has  in  any  degree  approached 
the  tone  of  PINDAR,  his  translations  from 
whom  may  be  regarded  as  nearly  faultless ; 
and  his  hymns  are  among  the  sweetest  which 
English  literature  contains,  breathing  a  fervent 
devotion  in  the  most  poetical  language  and  most 
melodious  verse.  I  doubt  whether  there  is  a 
religious  lyric  so  universally  known  in  the 
British  empire  or  in  our  own  country,  as  the 
beautiful  missionary  piece  beginning  u  From 
Greenland's  icy  mountains."  The  fragments 
of  Morte  d'Arthur,  the  Mask  of  Gwendolen, 
and  the  World  before  the  Flood,  are  not  equal 
to  his  Palestine,  Europe,  or  minor  poems  ;  but 
they  contain  elegant  and  powerful  passages. 
The  only  thing  unworthy  of  his  reputation 
which  I  have  seen  is  Blue  Beard,  a  serio- 
comic oriental  romance,  which  I  believe  was 
first  published  after  his  death. 

The  widow  of  Bishop  HEBER,  a  daughter  of 
Dean  Shipley,  of  St.  Asaph,  and  a  woman 
whose  gentleness,  taste,  and  learning  made 
her  a  fit  associate  for  a  man  of  genius,  has 
published  his  Life,  and  his  Narrative  of  a 
Journey  through  the  Upper  Provinces  of  In- 
dia from  Calcutta  to  Bombay,  each  in  two 
volumes  quarto.  A  complete  edition  of  his 
Poetical  Works  has  been  issued  by  Lea  and 
Blanchard  of  Philadelphia,  and  his  Me- 
moirs, Travels,  Sermons,  and  other  prose 
writings,  have  also  been  reprinted  in  this 
country. 


REGINALD    HEBER. 


187 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

BRIGHTEST  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning  ! 

Dawn  on  our  darkness  and  lend  us  Thine  aid  ! 
Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid  ! 

Cold  on  His  cradle  the  dew-drops  are  shining, 
Low  lies  his  head  with  the  beast  of  the  stall ; 

Angels  adore  Him  in  slumber  reclining, 
Maker  and  Monarch  and  Saviour  of  all ! 

Say,  shall  we  yield  Him,  in  costly  devotion, 
Odours  of  Edom,  and  offerings  divine  1 

Gems  of  the  mountain  and  pearls  of  the  ocean, 
Myrrh  from  the  forest  or  gold  from  the  mine  1 

Vainly  we  offer  each  ample  oblation ; 

Vainly  with  gifts  would  His  favour  secure  : 
Richer  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration ; 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning  ! 

Dawn  on  our  darkness  and  lend  us  Thine  aid  ! 
Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid. 


THE  WIDOW  OF  NAIN. 

WAKE  not,  O  mother !  sounds  of  lamentation  ! 

Weep  not,  O  widow !  weep  not  hopelessly  ! 
Strong  is  His  arm,  the  Bringer  of  Salvation, 

Strong  is  the  Word  of  God  to  succour  thee  ! 

Bear  forth  the  cold  corpse,  slowly,  slowly  bear  him : 
Hide  his  pale  features  with  the  sable  pall : 

Chide  not  the  sad  one  wildly  weeping  near  him : 
Widow'd  and  childless,  she  has  lost  her  all ! 

Why  pause  the  mourners  1   Who  forbids  our  weep- 
Ing? 

Who  the  dark  pomp  of  sorrow  has  delay'd  1 
"  Set  down  the  bier, — he  is  not  dead  but  sleeping  ! 

Young  man,  arise !" — He  spake,  and  was  obey  'd! 

Change,  then,  O  sad  one  !  grief  to  exultation  : 
Worship  and  fall  before  Messiah's  knee. 

Strong  was  His  arm,  the  Bringer  of  Salvation  ; 
Strong  was  the  Word  of  God  to  succour  thee  ! 


THOU  ART  GONE  TO  THE  GRAVE. 

THOU  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  but  we  will  not  de- 
plore thee, 
Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass  the 

tomb ; 
Thy  Saviour  has  pass'd  through  its  portal  before 

thee, 

And  the  lamp  of  His  love  is  thy  guide  through 
the  gloom  ! 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  we  no  longer  behold 
thee, 

Nor  tread  the  rough  path  of  the  world  by  thy  side ; 
But  the  wide  arms  of  Mercy  are  spread  to  enfold  thee, 

And  sinners  may  die,  for  the  SINLESS  has  died  ! 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  and,  its  mansion  for- 
saking, 

Perchance  thy  weak  spirit  in  fear  linger'd  long ; 
But  the  mild  rays  of  Paradise  beam'd  on  thy  waking, 
And  the  sound  which  thou   heardst  was  the 
seraphim's  song  ! 

Thou  art   gone  to  the  grave !  but  we  will  not 

deplore  thee, 
Whose  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian  and 

guide ; 

He  gave  thee,  He  took  thee,  and  He  will  restore  thee, 
And  death  has  no  sting,  for  the  Saviour  has  died ! 


SONG. 

THERK  is,  they  say,  a  secret  well, 

In  Ardennes'  forest  gray, 
Whose  waters  boast  a  numbing  spell, 

That  memory  must  obey. 

Who  tastes  the  rill  so  cool  and  calm 

In  passion's  wild  distress, 
Their  breasts  imbibe  the  sullen  balm 

Of  deep  forgetfulness. 

And  many  a  maid  has  sought  the  grove, 

And  bow'd  beside  the  wave  ; 
But  few  have  borne  to  lose  the  love 

That  wore  them  to  the  grave. 

No  !  by  these  tears,  whose  ceaseless  smart 

My  reason  chides  in  vain ; 
By  all  the  secret  of  a  heart 

That  never  told  its  pain. 

By  all  the  walks  that  once  were  dear, 
Beneath  the  green-wood  bough  ; 

By  all  the  songs  that  soothed  his  ear 
Who  will  not  listen  now. 

By  every  dream  of  hope  gone  by 
That  haunts  my  slumber  yet, — 

A  love-sick  heart  may  long  to  die, 
But  never  to  forget ! 


FAREWELL. 

WHEX  eyes  are  beaming 

What  never  tongue  might  tell ; 

When  tears  are  streaming 
From  their  crystal  cell, 

When  hands  are  link'd  that  dread  to  part, 

And  heart  is  met  by  throbbing  heart, 

Oh  bitter,  bitter  is  the  smart, 
Of  them  that  bid  farewell ! 

When  hope,  is  chidden 

That  fain  of  bliss  would  tell, 
And  love  forbidden 

In  the  breast  to  dwell, 
When,  fetter'd  by  a  viewless  chain 
We  turn  and  gaze  and  turn  again, 
Oh,  death  were  mercy  to  the  pain 

Of  those  that  bid  farewell ! 


188 


REGINALD    HEBER. 


MISSIONARY  HYMN. 


Greenland's  icy  mountains, 

From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 

Roll  down  their  golden  sand  ; 
From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain, 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error's  chain  ! 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 

Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle, 
Though  every  prospect  pleases, 

»And  only  man  is  vile  : 
In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strown, 
The  heathen  in  his  blindness 

Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone  ! 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high, 
Can  we  to  men  benighted 

The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 
Salvation  !  oh,  Salvation  ! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 
Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learn'd  Messiah's  name  ! 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds  his  story, 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 
Till  like  a  sea  of  glory, 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
Till  o'er  our  ransom'd  nature, 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign  ! 


THE  BRITISH  BOW. 

YE  spirits  of  our  fathers, 

The  hardy,  bold,  and  free, 
Who  chased  o'er  Cressy's  gory  field 

A  fourfold  enemy  ! 
From  us  who  love  your  sylvan  game, 

To  you  the  song  shall  flow, 
To  the  fame  of  your  name 

Who  so  bravely  bent  the  bow. 

'Twas  merry  then  in  England, 

(Our  ancient  records  tell,) 
With  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 

WTho  dwelt  by  down  and  dell ; 
And  yet  we  love  the  bold  outlaw 

Who  braved  a  tyrant  foe^ 
Whose  cheer  was  the  deer, 

And  his  only  friend  the  bow  ! 


'Twas  merry  then  in  England 

In  autumn's  dewy  morn, 
When  echo  started  from  her  hill 

To  hear  the  bugle-horn. 
And  beauty,  mirth,  and  warrior  worth 

In  garb  of  green  did  go 
The  shade  to  invade 

With  the  arrow  and  the  bow. 

Ye  spirits  of  our  fathers  ! 

Extend  to  us  your  care, 
Among  your  children  yet  are  found 

The  valiant  and  the  fair ! 
'Tis  merry  yet  in  Old  England, 

Full  well  her  archers  know, 
And  shame  on  their  name 

Who  despise  the  British  bow. 


VERSES  TO  MRS.  HEBER. 

IF  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 

How  fast  would  evening  fail 
In  green  Bengala's  palmy  grove, 

Listening  the  nightingale  ! 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 
How  gayly  would  our  pinnace  glide 

O'er  Gunga's  mimic  sea  ! 

I  miss  thee  at  the  dawning  gray, 

When,  on  our  deck  reclined, 
In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I  lay 

And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I  miss  thee  when  by  Gunga's  stream 

My  twilight  steps  I  guide, 
But  most  beneath  the  lamp's  pale  beam 

I  miss  thee  from  my  side. 

I  spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 

The  lingering  noon  to  cheer, 
But  miss  thy  kind  approving  eye, 

Thy  meek  attentive  ear. 

But;  when  of  morn  and  eve  the  star 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 
I  feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

Then  on  !  then  on  !  where  duty  leads, 

My  course  be  onward  still, 
O'er  broad  Hindostan's  sultry  mead, 

O'er  bleak  Almorah's  hill. 

That  course,  nor  Delhi's  kingly  gates, 

Nor  wild  Malwah  detain  ; 
For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 

By  yonder  western  main. 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they  say, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea ; 
But  ne'er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  ! 


ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 


THE  father  and  grandfather  of  the  late  ALLAN 
CUNNINGHAM  were  farmers,  in  Blackwood,  a 
place  of  much  natural  beauty,  near  Dumfries, 
in  Scotland,  where  the  poet  was  born  on  the 
seventh  of  December,  1784.  When  eleven 
years  of  age,  he  was  taken  from  the  parish 
school  and  apprenticed  to  his  elder  brother,  a 
stone  mason,  with  whom  he  remained  until  he 
became  a  skilful  workman.  The  practical 
knowledge  thus  acquired  was  of  much  value 
to  him  when  in  later  years  he  wrote  his  "  Lives 
of  British  Architects,"  a  work  as  distinguished 
for  judicious  criticism  as  for  accuracy  of  state- 
ment and  the  attractive  simplicity  of  its  style. 

The  first  publications  of  CUNNINGHAM  were 
several  lyrical  pieces  in  CROMEK'S  "  Remains 
of  Nithsdale  and  Galloway  Song,"  a  volume 
of  which  they  constituted  the  most  pleasing 
contents.  They  attracted  the  attention  of  Dr. 
PERCY,  who  declared  them  to  be  too  good  for 
antiques ;  they  were  praised  by  SCOTT  ;*  and 
their  popularity,  surprising  as  much  as  it 
gratified  the  author,  led  to  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  their  paternity. 

In  1810  CUNNINGHAM  finally  abandoned  the 
trowel  for  the  pen,  and  went  to  London.  An 
early  and  judicious  marriage  secured  to  him  a 
quiet  and  happy  home.  From  the  suffering 
experienced  by  so  many  men  of  genius,  the 
excitements  and  the  ruin  of  HOOK,  MAGINN, 
and  others  among  his  contemporaries,  he  was 
thus  saved.  His  moral  worth  was  equal  to 
his  intellectual  accomplishments,  and  he  won 
the  success  which  in  nearly  all  instances 
attends  upon  talents  united  with  industry  and 
integrity.  Among  his  earliest  publications 
were  "  Mark  Macrabin,  or  the  Covenanters," 
a  prose  story  of  considerable  power  printed  in 
"  Blackwood,"  and  a  series  of  tales  and  tradi- 
tions in  the  London  Magazine.  These,  and 

*  STB  WALTER  SCOTT  says,  in  his  introductory  epistle 
to  "  Tho  Fortunes  of  Ni?el,"  "  With  a  popular  impress, 
people  would  mad  and  admire  the  beauties  of  Allan — as 
it  is,  they  may  perhaps  only  note  his  defects — or,  what  is 
worso ,  not  note  him  at  all.  But  never  mind  them,  honest 
Allan  ;  yon  are  a  credit  to  Caledonia  for  all  that.  There 
are  some  lyrical  effusions  of  his,  too,  which  yon  would 
do  well  to  read,  Captain.  '  It 's  name,  and  it 's  hame,' 
is  equal  to  BURNS." 


his  "  Paul  Jones"  and  "  Sir  Michael  Scott," 
we  have  never  seen,  but  we  believe  them  to  be 
inferior  to  his  more  recent  novels. 

At  the  end  of  four  years  from  the  commence- 
ment of  his  life  in  the  metropolis,  CUNNING- 
HAM entered  the  studio  of  Sir  FRANCIS 
CHANTRY,  where  he  remained  until  the  death 
of  that  eminent  sculptor,  who  is  supposed 
to  have  been  much  indebted  to  him  for  the 
marks  of  imagination  and  fancy  which  appear 
in  his  works.  He  still  found  time  for  literary 
pursuits,  and  in  a  short  period  wrote  several 
prose  fictions,  and  "  Sir  Marmaduke  Max- 
well," a  dramatic  poem,  the  scenery  and 
characters  of  which  belong  to  his  native  dis- 
trict. In  1825  he  published  his  "  Scottish 
Song,"  in  which  are  preserved  the  finest  lyrics 
of  his  native  country,  with  copious  traditional 
and  critical  notes;  in  1831,  "  Lives  of  Emi- 
nent Painters  and  Sculptors,"  which  has  been 
reprinted  in  Harpers1  Family  Library  ^  and  the 
"  Lives  of  British  Architects,"  to  which  we 
have  before  alluded.  In  1832  he  wrote  "  The 
Maid  of  Elvar,"  the  last  and  the  best  of  his 
larger  poems.  It  is  a  rural  epic,  smoothly 
versified,  and  containing  many  pleasing  pic- 
tures of  scenery  and  life.  Among  his  more 
recent  works  were  "  Lord  Roldan,"  a  novel, 
"The  Life  and  Land  of  Burns,"  and  "Me- 
moirs of  Sir  David  Wilkie,"  the  last  of  which 
he  finished  but  two  days  before  his  own 
death,  which  occurred  on  the  twenty-ninth  of 
October,  1843. 

Cunningham  commenced  many  years  ago, 
"The  Lives  of  the  Poets  from  Chaucer  to 
Coleridge,"  a  work  which  he  was  well  qua- 
lified to  write,  but  it  was  never  finished. 
In  the  "  Life  and  Land  of  Burns,"  is  a  fine 
portrait  of  "  Honest  Allan,"  as  SCOTT  was 
wont  to  call  him,  exhibiting  in  vigorous  pro- 
portions, penetrating  eyes,  and  countenance 
expressive  of  power  and  gentleness,  the  most 
striking  qualities  of  the  man.  He  is  pre- 
sented in  the  tartan,  symboling^  that  love  of 
Scotland  which  he  ever  cherished,  an'd  which 
is  also  shown  in  the  selection  of  the  subjects  of 
his  works,  in  their  style,  and  in  their  spirit. 

189 


190 


ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 


A  WET  SHEET  AND  A  FLOWING  SEA. 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, — 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast : 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  : 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free, — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There 's  tempest  in  yon  horn'd  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
And  hark  !  the  music,  mariners, 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  : 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashing  free, — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 


GENTLE  HUGH  HERRIES. 

Go  seek  in  the  wild  glen 

Where  streamlets  are  falling, 
Go  seek  on  the  lone  hill 

Where  curlews  are  calling ; 
Go  seek  when  the  clear  stars 

Shine  down  without  number, 
For  there  shall  ye  find  him 

My  true  love  in  slumber. 

They  sought  in  the  wild  glen — 

The  glen  was  forsaken  ; 
They  sought  on  the  mountain, 

'Mang  lang  lady-bracken ; 
And  sore,  sore  they  hunted 

My  true  love  to  find  him, 
With  the  strong  bands  of  iron 

To  fetter  and  bind  him. 

Yon  green  hill  I'll  give  thee, 

Where  the  falcon  is  flying, 
To  show  me  the  den  where 

This  bold  traitor's  lying — 
Oh  make  me  of  Nithsdale's 

Fair  princedom  the  heiress, 
Is  that  worth  one  smile  of 

My  gentle  Hugh  Herries  1 

The  white  bread,  the  sweet  milk, 

And  ripe  fruits,  I  found  him, 
And  safe  in  my  fond  arms 

I  clasp'd  and  I  wound  him ; 
I  warn  you  go  not  where 

My  true  lover  tarries, 
For  sharp  smites  the  sword  of 

My  gentle  Hugh  Herries. 


They  rein'd  their  proud  war-steeds, 

Away  they  went  sweeping, 
And  behind  them  dames  wail'd,  and 

Fair  maidens  went  weeping; 
But  deep  in  yon  wild  glen, 

'Mang  banks  of  blae-berries, 
I  dwell  with  my  loved  one, 

My  gentle  Hugh  Herries. 


THE  POET'S  BRIDAL-DAY  SONG. 

OH  !  my  love's  like  the  steadfast  sun, 

Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run : 

Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 

Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  fears ; 

Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  davs  of  pain, 

Nor  dreams  of  glory  dream'd  in  vain, — 

Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  which  flows 

To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes, 

Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee 

One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I  muse,  I  see  thee  sit 

In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit ; 

Fair,  gentle,  as  when  first  I  sued 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood  : 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 

As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree, 

We  stay'd  and  woo'd,  and  thought  the  moon 

Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon ; 

Or  linger'd  mid  the  falling  dew, 

When  looks  were  fond,  and  words  were  few. 

Though  I  see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet ; 
And  time,  and  care,  and  birth-time  woes 
Have  dimm'd  thine  eye,  and  touch'd  thy  rose: 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
All  that  charms  me  of  tale  or  song ; 
When  words  come  down  like  dews  unsought, 
With  gleams  of  deep  enthusiast  thought ; 
And  fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free, — 
They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

Oh,  when  more  thought  we  gave  of  old 

To  silver  than  some  give  to  gold, 

'T  was  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o'er 

What  things  should  deck  our  humble  bower! 

'T  was  sweet  to  pull,  in  hope,  with  thee, 

The  golden  fruit  from  fortune's  tree ; 

And  sweeter  still,  to  choose  and  twine 

A  garland  for  these  locks  of  thine ; 

A  song-wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 

While  rivers  flow,  and  woods  are  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought, — 
When  fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light ; 
And  hope,  that  decks  the  peasant's  bower, 
Shines  like  the  rainbow  through  the  shower  : 
Oh  then  I  see,  while  seated  nigh, 
A  mother's  heart  shine  in  thine  eye ; 
And  proud  resolve,  and  purpose  meek, 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak,-  — 
I  think  the  wedded  wife  of  mine 
The  best  of  all  that 's  not  divine  ! 


ALLAN    CUNNINGHAM. 


191 


IT'S  HAME   AND  IT'S  HAME. 

IT  's  hame  and  it's  hame,  hame  fain  would  I  be, 
O  hame,  hame,  hame  to  my  ain  countree ! 
There 's  an  eye  that  ever  weeps,  and  a  fair  face  will 

be  fain, 
As  I  pass  through  Annan  Water,  with  my  bonnie 

bands  again  ; 
When  the  flower  is  in  the  bud,  and  the  leaf  upon  the 

tree, 
The  lark  shall  sing  me  hame  in  my  ain  countree. 

It 's  hame  and  it 's  hame,  hame  fain  would  I  be, 
O  hame,  hame,  hame  to  my  ain  countree  ! 
The  green  leaf  of  loyalty 's  beginning  for  to  fa', 
The  bonnie  white  rose  it  is  withering  and  a', 
But!  '11  water  't  with  the  blood  of  usurping  tyrannic, 
And  green  it  will  grow  in  my  ain  countree. 

It's  hame  and  it's  hame, hame  fain  would  I  be, 
O  hame,  hame,  hame  to  my  ain  countree  ! 
There 's  nought  now  from  ruin  my  country  can  save 
But  the  keys  of  kind  heaven  to  open  the  grave, 
That  all  the  noble  martyrs  who  died  for  loyaltie 
May  rise  again  and  fight  for  their  ain  countree. 

It's  hame  and  it's  hame,  hame  fain  would  I  be, 
O  hame,  hame,  hame  to  my  ain  countree ! 

The  great  now  are  gane,  a'  who  ventured  to  save ; 

The  new  green  grass  is  growing  aboon  their  bloody 
grave ; 

B  ut  the  sun  through  the  mirk  blinks  bly  the  in  my  e'e, 

I  '11  shine  on  ye  yet  in  your  ain  countree. 


THE  SHEPHERD  SEEKS  HIS  GLOWING 
HEARTH. 

THE  shepherd  seeks  his  glowing  hearth, 

The  fox  calls  from  the  mountain, 
The  folded  flocks  are  white  with  rime, 

Swans  seek  the  silent  fountain  ; 
And  midnight  starless  is  and  drear, 

And  Ac's  wild  waters  swelling, 
Far  up  the  lonesome  greenwood  glen, 

Where  my  fair  maiden's  dwelling. 

Wild  is  the  night — green  July's  eve, 
Ne'er  balmier  seem'd  or  warmer ; 

For  I  sing  thy  name,  and  muse  on  thee, 
My  mild  and  winsome  charmer; 

Thy  bower  sheds  far  its  trysting  light 
Through  the  dark  air  of  December — 

Thy  father's  dreaming  o'er  his  wealth, 

Thy  mother's  in  her  chamber. 

Now  is  the  time  for  talk,  my  love, 

Soft  sighing,  mutual  wishing, 
Heart-throbbings,  interchange  of  vows, 

Words  breathed  mid  holy  kissing ; 
All  worldly  maxims,  wise  men's  rules, 

My  raptured  soul  disdaineth  ; 
For  with  my  love  the  world  is  lost 

And  all  the  world  containeth. 


AWAKE,  MY  LOVE! 

AWAKE,  my  love!  ere  morning's  ray 
Throws  off  night's  weed  of  pilgrim  gray  ; 
Ere  yet  the  hare,  cower'd  close  from  view, 
Licks  from  her  fleece  the  clover  dew  : 
Or  wild  swan  shakes  her  snowy  wings, 
By  hunters  roused  from  secret  springs : 
Or  birds  upon  the  boughs  awake, 
Till  green  Arbigland's  woodlands  shake. 

She  comb'd  her  curling  ringlets  down, 
Laced  her  green  jupes,  and  clasp'd  her  shoon ; 
And  from  her  home,  by  Preston-burn, 
Came  forth  the  rival  light  of  morn. 
The  lark's  song  dropp'd, — now  loud, now  hush, — 
The  goldspink  ariswer'd  from  the  bush ; 
The  plover,  fed  on  heather  crop, 
CalPd  from  the  misty  mountain  top. 

'Tis  sweet,  she  said,  while  thus  the  day 
Grows  into  gold  from  silvery  gray, 
To  hearken  heaven,  and  bush,  and  brake, 
Instinct  with  soul  of  song  awake ; — 
To  see  the  smoke,  in  many  a  wreath, 
Stream  blue  from  hall  and  bower  beneath, 
Where  yon  blithe  mower  hastes  along 
With  glittering  scythe  and  rustic  song. 

Yes,  lovely  one !  and  dost  thou  mark 
The  moral  of  yon  carolling  lark  1 
Takest  thou  from  Nature's  counsellor  tongue 
The  warning  precept  of  her  song  1 
Each  bird  that  shakes  the  dewy  grove 
Warms  its  wild  note  with  nuptial  love ; 
The  bird,  the  bee,  with  various  sound, 
Proclaim  the  sweets  of  wedlock  round. 


MY  AIN   COUNTREE. 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 

And  fair  sets  he  ; 
But  he  has  tint  the  blythe  blink  he  had 

In  my  ain  countree. 
Oh  !  gladness  comes  to  many, 

But  sorrow  comes  to  me, 
As  I  look  o'er  the  wide  ocean 

To  my  ain  countree. 

Oh  !  it's  not  my  ain  ruin 

That  saddens  aye  my  e'e, 
But  the  love  I  left  in  Galloway, 

Wi'  bonnie  bairns  three  ; 
My  namely  hearth  burn'd  bonnie, 

And  smiled  my  fair  Marie, — 
I  've  left  a'  my  heart  behind  me, 

In  my  ain  countree. 

The  bud  comes  back  to  summer, 

An'  the  blossom  to  the  bee, 
But  I  win  back — oh  never! 

To  my  ain  countree. 
I'm  leal  to  the  high  heaven, 

Which  will  be  leal  to  me  ; 
An'  there  I'll  meet  ye  a'  soon, 

Frae  my  ain  countree. 


BERNARD    BARTON. 


BERNARD  BARTON  was  born  in  1784,  and 
was  educated  in  one  of  the  seminaries  of  the 
Society  of  Friends.  He  subsequently  took  up 
his  residence  at  "Woodbridge  in  Suffolk,  where 
he  held  a  situation  in  a  banking-house.  His 
first  publication  was  an  anonymous  miscel- 
lany entitled  "  Metrical  Effusions,"  which 
was  followed  in  1818  by  "  Poems  by  an  Ama- 
teur," and  in  the  next  year  by  a  volume  under 
his  proper  signature,  which  was  favourably 
noticed  in  the  literary  gazettes,  and  was  re- 
printed from  the  third  London  edition  in  Phi- 
ladelphia. In  1826,  he  published  "  Napoleon 


SPIRITUAL   WORSHIP. 

THOUGH  glorious,  0  God !  must  thy  temple  have 
been 

On  the  day  of  its  first  dedication,  [seen 

When  the  cherubim's  wings  widely  waving  were 

On  high  on  the  ark's  holy  station ; 

When  even  the  chosen  of  Levi,  though  skill'd 

To  minister,  standing  before  thee, 
Retired  from  the  cloud  which  the  temple  then  fill'd, 

And  thy  glory  made  Israel  adore  thee ; 

Though  awfully  grand  was  thy  majesty  then, 
Yet  the  worship  thy  gospel  discloses, 

Less  splendid  in  pomp  to  the  vision  of  men, 
Far  surpasses  the  ritual  of  Moses. 

And  by  whom  was  that  ritual  for  ever  repeal'd, 
But  by  Him  unto  whom  it  was  given 

To  enter  the  oracle  where  is  reveal'd 

Not  the  cloud,  but  the  brightness  of  heaven  * 

Who  having  once  enter'd,  hath  shown  us  the  way, 
O  Lord  !  how  to  worship  before  thee ; 

Not  with  shadowy  forms  of  that  earlier  day, 
But  in  spirit  and  truth  to  adore  thee  ; 

This,  this  is  the  worship  the  Saviour  made  known, 

When  she  of  Samaria  found  him 
By  the  patriarch's  well,  sitting  weary  alone, 

With  the  stillness  of  noontide  around  him. 

How  sublime,  yet  how  simple,  the  homage  he  taught 
To  her  who  inquired  by  that  fountain, 

If  Jehovah  at  Solyma's  shrine  would  be  sought, 
Or  adored  on  Samaria's  mountain ! 

Woman,  believe  me,  the  hour  is  near, 
When  He,  if  ye  rightly  would  hail  Him, 

Will  neither  be  worshipp'd  exclusively  here, 
Nor  yet  at  the  altar  of  Salem. 


and  other  Poems,"  and  we  believe  he  has 
since  written  several  small  works  in  prose 
and  verse.  From  the  Life  and  Correspond- 
ence of  LAMB,  by  Sergeant  TALFOURD,  we 
learn  that  BARTON  belonged  to  the  circle  of 
intimate  friends  in  whose  society  that  gentle- 
hearted  humourist  so  much  delighted.  Many 
of  LAMB'S  most  familiar  and  characteristic 
letters  were  addressed  to  the  Quaker  poet. 

BARTON'S  style  is  diffuse,  but  simple  and 
graceful.  His  poetry  is  generally  descriptive 
and  meditative,  tender  and  devoted,  and  ani- 
mated by  cheerful  views  of  life. 


For  God  is  a  spirit,  and  they  who  aright 

Would  perform  the  pure  worship  He  loveth, 

In  the  heart's  holy  temple  will  seek,  with  delight, 
That  spirit  the  Father  approveth. 


TO  THE   SKYLARK. 

BIRD  of  the  free  and  fearless  wing ! 

Up  !  up  !  and  greet  the  sun's  first  ray, 
Until  the  spacious  welkin  ring 

With  thy  enlivening  matin  lay  ! 
I  love  to  track  thy  heavenward  way 

Till  thou  art  lost  to  aching  sight, 
And  hear  thy  song,  as  blithe  and  gay 

As  heaven  above  looks  pure  and  bright. 

Songster  of  sky  and  cloud  !  to  thee 

Has  heaven  a  joyous  lot  assign'd  ; 
And  thou,  to  hear  those  notes  of  glee, 

Would  seem  therein  thy  bliss  to  find : 
Thou  art  the  first  to  leave  behind, 

At  day's  return,  this  lower  earth ; 
And  soaring,  as  on  wings  of  wind, 

To  spring  whence  light  and  life  have  birth. 

Bird  of  the  sweet  and  taintless  hour  ! 

When  dewdrops  spangle  o'er  the  lea, 
Ere  yet  upon  the  bending  flower 

Has  lit  the  busy  humming  bee; 
Pure  as  all  nature  is  to  thee, 

Thou  with  an  instinct  half  divine, 
Wingest  thy  fearless  flight  so  free 

Up  toward  a  still  more  glorious  shrine. 

Bird  of  the  mom  !  from  thee  might  man, 

Creation's  lord,  a  lesson  take  : 
If  thou,  whose  instinct  ill  may  scan 

The  glories  that  around  thee  break, 


BERNARD    BARTON. 


193 


Thus  bidd'st  a  sleeping  world  awake 

To  joy  and  praise — Oh  !   how  much  more 

Should  mind,  immortal,  earth  forsake, 
And  man  look  upward  to  adore  ! 

Bird  of  the  happy,  heavenward  song! 

Could  but  the  poet  act  thy  part, 
This  soul,  upborne  on  wings  as  strong 

As  thought  can  give,  from  earth  might  start: 
And  he,  with  far  diviner  art 

Than  genius  ever  can  supply, 
As  thou  the  ear,  might  glad  the  heart, 

And  bring  down  music  from  the  sky  ! 


CHILDREN  OF   LIGHT. 

WALK  in  the  light !  so  shall  thou  know- 
That  fellowship  of  love 

His  Spirit  only  can  bestow, 
Who  reigns  in  light  above. 

Walk  in  the  light ! — and  sin,  abhorr'd, 
Shall  ne'er  defile  again  ; 

The  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  the  Lord 
Shall  cleanse  from  every  stain. 

Walk  in  the  light ! — and  thou  shalt  find 

Thy  heart  made  truly  His, 
Who  dwells  in  cloudless  light  enshrined, 

In  whom  no  darkness  is. 
Walk  in  the  light ! — and  thou  shalt  own 

Thy  darkness  pass'd  away, 
Because  that  light  hath  on  thee  shone 

In  which  is  perfect  day. 

Walk  in  the  licrht ! — and  e'en  the  tomb 

No  fearful  shade  shall  wear  ; 
Glory  shall  chase  away  its  gloom, 

For  Christ  hath  conquer'd  there  ! 
Walk  in  the  light ! — and  thou  shalt  be 

A  path,  though  thorny,  bright ; 
For  God,  by  grace,  shall  dwell  in  thee, 

And  God  himself  is  light ! 


TO   MARY. 

IT  is  not  alone  while  we  live  in  the  light 

Of  friendship's  kindling  glance, 
That  its  beams  so  true,  and  so  tenderly  bright, 

Our  purest  joys  can  enhance  : — 
But  that  ray  shines  on  through  a  night  of  tears, 
And  its  light  is  round  us  in  after  years. 

Nor  is  it  while  yet  on  the  listening  ear 

The  accents  of  friendship  steal, 
That  we  know  the  extent  of  the  joy  so  dear, 

Which  its  touching  tones  reveal  : — 
'Tis  in  after  moments  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
Their  echo  surpasses  music's  strain. 

Though  years  have  roll'd  by,  dear  Mary  !  since  we 

Have  look'd  on  each  other's  face, 
Yet  thy  memory  is  fondly  cherish'd  by  me, 

For  my  heart  is  its  dwelling-place  ; 
And,  if  on  this  earth  we  should  meet  no  more, 
It  must  linger  there  still  until  life  is  o'er. 


The  traveller  who  journeys  the  live-long  day 

Through  some  enchanting  vale, — 
Should  he,  when  the  mists  of  evening  are  gray, 

Some  neighbouring  mountain  scale, — 
Oh  !  will  he  not  stop,  and  look  back  to  review 
The  delightful  retreats  he  has  wander'd  through  1 

So  I,  who  have  toil'd  up  life's  steep  hill 

Some  steps, — since  we  parted  last, 
Often  pensively  pause,  and  look  eagerly  still 

On  the  few  bright  spots  I  have  pass'd  : — 
And  some  of  the  brightest,  dear  Mary  !  to  me, 
Were  the  lovely  ones  I  enjoy'd  with  thee. 

I  know  not  how  soon  dark  clouds  may  shade 

The  valley  of  years  gone  by  ; 
Or  how  quickly  its  happiest  haunts  may  fade 

In  the  mists  of  an  evening  sky  ; — 
But — till  quench'd  in  the  lustre  of  life's  setting  sun, 
I  shall  look  back  at  times,  as  I  now  have  done. 

TO  A  PROFILE. 

I  KT? EW  thee  not !  then  wherefore  gaze 

Upon  thy  silent  shadow  there, 
Which  so  imperfectly  portrays 

The  form  thy  features  used  to  wear  ? 
Yet  have  I  often  look'd  at  thee, 
As  if  those  lips  could  speak  to  me. 

I  knew  thee  not !  and  thou  couldst  know, 

At  best,  but  little  more  of  one 
Whose  pilgrimage  on  earth  below 

Commenced,  just  ere  thine  own  was  done  ; 
For  few  and  fleeting  days  were  thine, 
To  hope  or  fear  for  lot  of  mine. 

Yet  few  and  fleeting  as  they  were, 

Fancy  and  feeling  picture  this, 
They  prompted  many  a  fervent  prayer, 

Witness'd,  perchance,  a  parting  kiss; 
And  might  not  kiss,  and  prayer,  from  thee, 
At  such  a  period,  profit  me  ] 

Whether  they  did  or  not,  I  owe 
At  least  this  tribute  to  thy  worth ; 

Though  little  all  I  can  bestow, 
Yet  fond  affection  gives  it  birth ; 

And  prompts  me,  as  thy  shade  I  view, 

To  bless  thee,  whom  I  never  knew ! 


FAREWELL. 

NAT,  shrink  not  from  the  word  "  farewell !" 
As  if 'twere  friendship's  final  knell ; 

Such  fears  may  prove  but  vain  : 
So  changeful  is  life's  fleeting  day, 
Whene'er  we  sever — hope  may  say, 

"  We  part — to  meet  again  !" 

E'en  the  last  parting  heart  can  know, 
Brings  not  unutterable  wo, 

To  souls  that  heavenward  soar; 
For  humble  faith,  with  steadfast  eye, 
Points  to  a  brighter  world  on  high, 
Where  hearts  that  here  at  parting  sigh, 

May  meet — to  part  no  more. 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT  was  born  on  the 
nineteenth  of  October,  1784,  at  Soutbgate  in 
Middlesex.  His  father,  a  clergyman  of  the 
established  church,  was  an  American  refu- 
gee, and  his  mother  a  sister  of  BENJAMIN 
WEST,  President  of  the  Royal  Academy.  He 
was  educated  at  Christ's  Hospital,  where 
LAMB  and  COLERIDGE  were  his  school-fellows; 
and  was  subsequently  for  some  time  in  the 
office  of  an  attorney ;  but  he  abandoned  the 
study  of  the  law  to  accept  a  place  under  govern- 
ment, which  he  held  until  the  establishment 
of  the  Examiner,  by  himself  and  his  brother, 
in  1809.  The  Examiner  was  violent  in  its 
politics,  and  was  for  many  years  conducted 
with  great  ability  and  success.  HUNT  was 
several  times  prosecuted  by  the  government, 
and  was  imprisoned  two  years  in  the  Surrey 
jail  for  a  libel  on  the  Prince  Regent.  He  co- 
vered the  walls  of  his  cell  with  garlands,  how- 
ever, and  wrote  as  industriously  as  ever.  It  was 
while  a  prisoner  that  he  composed  The  Feast 
of  the  Poets,  The  Descent  of  Liberty,  and  The 
Story  of  Rimini.  It  was  in  this  period,  also, 
that  he  became  acquainted  with  Lord  BYRON. 
He  has  been  censured,  and  I  think  justly,  for 
his  conduct  towards  the  noble  poet,  respecting 
whose  faults  gratitude  might  have  made  him 
silent,  for  BYRON  had  been  a  liberal  friend  when 
his  friendship  was  serviceable  to  him. 

In  1816  HUNT  established  The  Reflector,  a 
quarterly  magazine ;  afterward,  in  conjunction 
with  SHELLEY  and  BYRON,  The  Liberal,  and, 
with  HAZLITT,  The  Round  Table.  He  also 
published  in  weekly  numbers  The  Indicator 
and  The  Companion,  two  of  the  most  delight- 
ful series  of  essays  in  the  English  language. 
In  the  preface  to  the  last  edition  of  these 
papers  he  tells  us  that  they  "  were  written 
during  times  of  great  trouble  with  him,  and 
helped  him  to  see  much  of  tb/at  fair  play  be- 
tween his  own  anxieties  and  his  natural  cheer- 
fulness, of  which  an  indestructible  belief  in 
the  good  and  the  beautiful  has  rendered  him 
perhaps  not  undeserving."  In  1840  he  pub- 
lished a  selection  of  his  contributions  to  vari- 
ous periodicals  under  the  title  of  The  Seer,  or 
Common-Places  Refreshed,  "to  show  that  the 
more  we  look  at  any  thing  in  this  beautiful 


and  abundant  world  with  a  desire  to  be 
pleased  with  it,  the  more  we  shall  be  reward- 
ed by  the  loving  Spirit  of  the  universe  with 
discoveries  which  await  only  the  desire." 
His  other  principal  prose  writings  are  Criti- 
cal Essays  on  the  Performers  of  the  London 
Theatres,  and  Recollections  of  Lord  Byron  and 
some  of  his  Contemporaries. 

The  best  of  HUNT'S  poems  is  The  Story  of 
Rimini.  In  the  edition  of  his  Poetical  Works 
published  byMoxonin!844,  it  is  much  altered: 
the  morality  is  improved,  and  the  catastrophe 
is  conformed  to  history.  Besides  this  and  the 
other  poems  to  wrhieh  I  have  alluded,  he  has 
written  Hero  and  Leander,  The  Palfrey,  Cap- 
tain Sword  and  Captain  Pen,  Blue  Stocking 
Revels  or  the  Feast  of  Violets,  The  Legend 
of  Florence,  Miscellaneous  Poems,  and  a  vo- 
lume of  Translations. 

One  of  HUNT'S  most  apparent  characteris- 
tics is  his  cheerfulness.  His  temperament  is 
obviously  mercurial.  His  fondness  for  the 
gayer  class  of  Italian  writers  indicates  a  sym- 
pathy with  southern  buoyancy  not  often  en- 
countered in  English  poetry.  His  versification 
is  easy  and  playful;  too  much  so,  indeed,  for 
imposing  effect.  He  seems  to  have  written 
generally  under  the  inspiration  of  high  ani- 
mal spirits.  His  sentiment  is  lively  and  ten- 
der, rather  than  serious  and  impressive.  The 
reviewers  have  censured  him  with  rather  too 
much  severity  for  occasional  affectations.  With 
a  few  exceptions  on  this  score  his  Story  of 
Rimini  is  a  charming  poem.  The  Legend  of 
Florence,  written  at  a  later  period,  is  one  of 
the  most  original  and  captivating  of  modern 
plays.  Many  of  his  Epistles  glow  with  a 
genial  humour  and  spirit  of  fellowship  which 
betray  fine  social  qualities.  He  lives  obvi- 
ously in  his  affections,  and  cultivates  litera- 
ture with  refined  taste  rather  than  with  luke- 
warm assiduity. 

HUNT'S  intimacy  with  SHELLEY  and  KEATS 
is  well  known  to  every  one  acquainted  with 
the  lives  of  those  great  poets.  He  is  still,  as 
in  earlier  days,  a  general  favourite  in  society, 
and  has  more  and  warmer  personal  friends 
than  almost  any  other  literary  man  in  Eng- 
land. 

194 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


19; 


FROM  THE  LEGEND  OF  FLORENCE. 

AGOLANTI  AND  HIS  LADY. 

IN  all  except  a  heart,  and  a  black  shade 
Of  superstition,  he  is  man  enough  ! 
Has  a  bold  blood,  large  brain,  and  liberal  hand 
As  far  as  the  purse  goes  ;  albeit  he  likes 
The  going  to  be  blown  abroad  with  trumpets. 
Nay,  I  won't  swear  he  does  not  love  his  wife 
As  well  as  a  man  of  no  sort  of  affection, 
Nor  any  domestic  tenderness,  can  do  so. 
He  highly  approves  her  virtues,  talents,  beauty : 
Thinks  her  the  sweetest  woman  in  all  Florence, 
Partly,  because  she  is, — partly,  because 
She  is  his  own,  and  glorifies  his  choice ; 
And  therefore  he  does  her  the  honour  of  making  her 
The  representative  and  epitome 
Of  all  he  values, — public  reputation, 
Private  obedience,  delighted  fondness, 
Grateful  return  for  his  unarniableness, 
Love  without  bounds,  in  short,  for  his  self-love : 
And  as  she  finds  it  difficult,  poor  soul, 
To  pay  such  reasonable  demands  at  sight 
With  the  whole  treasure  of  her  heart  and  smiles, 
The  gentleman  takes  pity  on — himself! 
Looks  on  himself  as  the  most  unresponded  to 
And  unaccountably  ill-used  bad  temper 
In  Tuscany  ;  rages  at  every  word 
And  look  she  gives  another  ;  and  fills  the  house 
With  miseries,  which,  because  they  ease  himself 
And  his  vile  spleen,  he  thinks  her  bound  to  suffer  ; 
And  then  finds  malice  in  her  very  suffering! 

...  And  yet,  observe  now  : — 
Such  is  poor  human  nature,  at  least  such 
Is  poor  human  inhuman  nature  in  this  man, 
That  if  she  were  to  die,  I  verily  think 
He'd  weep,  and  sit  at  the  receipt  of  pity, 
And  call  upon  the  gods,  and  think  he  loved  her ! 


A  DOMESTIC  SCENE. 

A  chamber  hwnrr  with  purple,  and  containing  a  cabinet  pic- 
ture of  the  Madonna,  but  otherwise  little  furnished. 
Jlffolanti  is  here  alone,  until  the  entrance  of  Ginevra, 
while  lie  is  speaking,  upon  which  he  closes  the  door  over 
k  the  picture,  hands  her  a  chair,  and  adjusts  another  for 
himself,  but  continues  to  stand. 

Ago.  Every  way  she  opposes  me,  even  with  arms 
Of  peace  and  love.  I  bade  remove  that  picture 
From  this  deserted  room.     Can  she  have  had  it 
Brought  back  this  instant,  knowing  how  my  anger, 
Just  though  it  be,  cannot  behold  unmoved 
The  face  of  suffering  heaven  1   O,  artifice 
In  very  piety  !     'Twere  piety  to  veil  it 
From  our  discourse,  and  look  another  way. 

Gin.  (Cheerfully.)  The  world  seems  glad  after 

its  hearty  drink 

Of  rain.  I  fear'd,  when  you  came  back  this  morning, 
The  shower  had  stopp'd  you,  or  that  you  were  ill. 

Ago.  You  fear'd  !  you  hoped.     What  fear  you 

that  I  fear, 

Or  hope  for  that  I  hope  for  1     A  truce,  madam, 
To  these  exordiums  and  pretended  interests, 
Whose  only  shallow  intent  is  to  delay, 
Or  to  divert,  the  sole  dire  subject, — me. 
Soh  !  you  would  see  the  spectacle  !  you,  who  start 


At  openings  of  doors  and  falls  of  pins. 

Trumpets  and  drums  quiet  a  lady's  nerves ; 

And  a  good  hacking  blow  at  a  tournament 

Equals  burnt  feathers  or  hartshorn  for  a  stimulus 

To  pretty  household  tremblers. 
Gin.  I  express'd 

No  wish  to  see  the  tournament,  nor  indeed 

Any  thing,  of  my  own  accord;  or  contrary 

To  your  good  judgment. 

Ago.  O,  of  course  not  !    Washes 

Are  never  express'd  for,  or  by,  contraries ; 

Nor  the  good  judgment  of  an  anxious  husband 

Held  forth  as  a  pleasant  thing  to  differ  with. 
Gin.  It  is  as  easy  as  sitting  in  my  chair 

To  say,  I  will  not  go :   and  I  will  not. 

Be  pleased  to  think  that  settled. 
Ago.  The  more  easily 

As  'tis  expected  I  should  go,  is  it  not  ! 

And  then  you  will  sit  happy  at  receipt 

Of  letters  from  Antonio  Rondinelli. 
Gin.  Return'd  unopen'd,  sir. 
Ago.  How  many  1 
Gin.  Three. 

Ago.  You  arecorrectasto  those  three.  How  many 
Open'd  1   Your  look,  madam,  is  wondrous  logical ; 
Conclusive  by  mere  pathos  of  astonishment ; 
And  cramm'd  with  scorn  from  pure  unscornfulness. 
I  have,  'tis  true,  strong  doubts  of  your  regard 
For  him,  or  any  one  ;  of  your  love  of  power 
None,  as  you  know  I  have  reason;  though  you  take 
Ways  of  refined  provokingness  to  wreak  it. 
Antonio  knows  these  fools  you  saw  but  now, 
And  fools  have  foolish  friendships,  and  bad  leagues 
For  getting  a  little  power,  not  natural  to  them, 
Out  of  their  laugh'd-at  betters.     Be  it  as  it  may, 
All  this,  I  will  not  have  these  prying  idlers 
Put  my  domestic  troubles  to  the  blush ; 
Nor  you  sit  thus  in  ostentatious  meekness 
Playing  the  victim  with  a  pretty  breath, 
And  smiles  that  say  "God  help  me!"  Well,  madam, 


What  do 


you  say 


Gin.  I  say  I  will  do  whatever 
You  think  best,  and  desire. 

Ago.  And  make  the  worst  of  it 
By  whatsoever  may  mislead,  and  vex  ? 
There — now  you  make  a  pretty  sign,  as  though 
Your  silence  were  compell'd. 

Gin.  What  can  I  say, 
Or  what,  alas  !  not  say,  and  not  be  chided  ? 
You  should  not  use  me  thus.     I  have  not  strength 

for  it 

So  great  as  you  may  think.     My  late  sharp  illness 
Has  left  me  weak. 

Ago.  I've  known  you  weaker,  madam, 
But  never  feeble  enough  to  want  the  strength 
Of  contest  and  perverseness.     Oh,  men  too  ! 
Men  may  be  weak,  even  from  the  magnanimity 
Of  strength  itself;  and  women  can  take  poor 
Advantages,  that  were  in  men  but  cowardice. 

Gin.  (Aside)    Dear  Heaven  !    what  humblest 

doubts  of  our  self-knowledge 
Should  we  not  feel,  when  tyranny  can  talk  thus  1 

Ago.  Can  you  pretend,  madam,  with  your  sur- 
passing 
Candour  and  heavenly  kindness,  that  you  never 


196 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


Utter'd  one  gentle-sounding  word,  not  meant 
To  give  the  hearer  pain  ?  me  pain  ?  your  husband  1 
Whom  in  all  evil  thoughts  you  so  pretend 
To  be  unlike. 

Gin.  I  cannot  dare  pretend  it. 
I  am  a  woman,  not  an  angel. 

Ago.  Ay,  [then 

See  there — you  have  !  you  own  it !  how  pretend 
To  make  such  griefs  of  every  petty  syllable, 
Wrung  from  myself  by  everlasting  scorn  1 

Gin.  One  pain  is  not  a  thousand;  norone  wrong, 
Acknowledged  and  repented  of,  the  habit 
Of  unprovoked  and  unrepented  years. 

Ago.  Of  unprovoked  !   Oh,  let  all  provocation 
Take  every  brutish  shape  it  can  devise 
To  try  endurance  with;  taunt  it  in  failure, 
Grind  it  in  want,  stoop  it  with  family  shames, 
Make  gross  the  name  of  mother,  call  it  fool, 
Pander,  slave,  coward,  or  whatsoever  opprobrium 
Makes  the  soul  swoon  within  its  range,  for  want 
Of  some  great  answer,  terrible  as  it's  wrong, 
And  it  shall  be  as  nothing  to  this  miserable, 
Mean,  meek-voiced,  most  malignant  lie  of  lies, 
This  angel-inimicking  non-provocation 
From  one  too  cold  to  enrage,  and  weak  to  tread  on  ! 
You  never  loved  me  once — You  loved  me  not — 
Never  did — no — not  when  before  the  altar, 
With  a  mean  coldness,  a  worldly-minded  coldness 
And  lie  on  your  lips,  you  took  me  for  your  husband, 
Thinking  to  have  a  house,  a  purse,  a  liberty, 
By,  but  not  for,  the  man  you  scorn'd  to  love  ! 

Gin.  I  scorn'd  you  not — and  knew  not  what 

scorn  was — 

Being  scarcely  past  a  child,  and  knowing  nothing 
But  trusting  thoughts  and  innocent  daily  habits. 
Oh,  could  you  trust  yourself — But  why  repeat 
What  still  is  thus  repeated  day  by  day, 
Still  ending  with  the  question,  "  Why  repeat?" 
[Rising  and  moving  about.] 

You  make  the  blood  at  last  mount  to  my  brain, 
And  tax  me  past  endurance.     What  have  I  done, 
Good  God  !   what  have  I  done,  that  I  am  thus 
At  the  mercy  of  a  mystery  of  tyranny, 
Which  from  its  victim  demands  every  virtue, 
And  brings  it  none  1 

Ago.  I  thank  you  madam,  humbly, 
That  was  sincere  at  least. 

Gin.  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Anger  is  ever  excessive,  and  speaks  wrong. 

Ago.  This  is  the  gentle,  patient,  unprovoked 
And  unprovoking,  never-answering  she  ! 

Gin.  Nay,  nay,  say  on  ;  I  do  deserve  it — I 
Who  speak  such  evil  of  anger,  and  then  am  angry, 
Yet  you  might  pity  me  too,  being  like  yourself 
In  fellowship  there  at  least. 

Ago.  A  taunt  in  friendliness  ! 
Meekness's  happiest  condescension  ! 

Gin.  No, 

So  help  me  heaven  !    I  but  spoke  in  consciousness 
Of  what  was  weak  on  both  sides.     There's  a  love 
In  that,  would  you  but  know  it,  and  encourage  it. 
The  consciousness  of  wrong,  in  wills  not  evil, 
Brings  charity.      Be  you  but  charitable, 
And  I  am  grateful,  and  we  both  shall  learn. 

Ago.  I  am  conscious  of  no  wrong  in  this  dispute, 


Nor  when  we  dispute,  ever, — except  the  wrong 
Done  to  myself  by  a  will  far  more  wilful, 
Because  less  moved,  and  less  ingenuous. 
Let  them  get  charity  that  show  it. 

Gin.  (who  has  reseated  herself.)     I  pray  you, 
Let  Fiordilisa  come  to  me.     My  lips 
Will  show  you  that  I  faint. 

[rfgolanti  rings  a  bell  on  the  table ,-  Fiordilisa  enters  to  her 
mistress  J 

Ago.   When  you  have  seen  your  mistress  well 

again, 

Go  to  Matteo  ;  and  tell  him,  from  herself, 
That  'tis  her  orders  she  be  excused  at  present 
To  all  that  come,  her  state  requiring  it, 
And  convalescence.     Mark  you  that  addition. 
She's  getting  well;  but  to  get  well,  needs  rest.  [Exit. 

Fior.  Needs  rest!  alas!  when  will  you  let  her  rest, 
But  in  her  grave?  My  lady  !  My  sweet  mistress  ! 

[Applying  a  volatile  to  her  temples.'] 
She  knows  me.     He  has  gone  :  the  Signer's  gone. 
(Aside.)  She  sighs,  as  though  she  mourn'd  him. 

Gin.   (listening^   What's  that ! 

Fior.  Nothing,  madam ;  I  heard  nothing. 

Gin.  Every  thing 

Gives  me  a  painful  wonder ;  you,  your  face,      [man 
These  walls.    My  hand  seems  to  me  not  more  hu- 
Than  animal ;  and  all  things  unaccountable. 
'Twill  pass  away.  What's  that  ?  ^n  organ  is  heard.-] 

Fior.  Yes,  I  hear  that. 

'Tis  Father  Anselmo,  madam,  in  the  chapel, 
Touching  the  new  organ.     In  truth,  I  ask'd  him, 
Thinking  that,  as  the  Signor  is  so  moved 
By  whatsoever  speaks  to  him  of  religion, 
It  might  have  done  no  harm  to  you  and  him,  madam, 
To  hear  it  while  conversing.     But  he's  old 
And  slow,  is  the  good  father. 

[Ginevra  kisses  her,  and  then  weeps  abundantly.] 

Gin.  Thank  heaven  !     thank  heaven  and  the 

sweet  sounds  !    I  have  not 
Wept,  Fiordilisa,  now  for  many  a  day, 
And  the  sound  freshens  me  ;  loosens  my  heart. 

[Music  is  heard.'] 

O  blessed  music  !  at  thy  feet  we  lie, 
Pitied  of  angels  surely. 

Fior.  Perhaps,  madam, 
You  will  rest  here,  and  try  to  sleep  awhile?       Loe, 

Gin.  No,  Fiordilisa:  (rising)  meeting  what  must 
Is  half  commanding  it ;  and  in  this  breath 
Of  heaven  my  mind  feels  duty  set  erect 
Fresh  out  of  tears.     Bed  is  for  night,  not  day, 
When  duty's  done.     So  cheer  we  as  we  may. 


FANCY. 

FANCY'S  the  wealth  of  wealth,  the  toiler's  hope, 
The  poor  man's  piecer-out;  the  art  of  nature, 
Painting  her  landscapes  twice;  tho  spirit  of  fact, 
As  matter  is  the  body ;  the  pure  gift 
Of  Heaven  to  poet  and  to  child  ;  which  he 
Who  retains  most  in  manhood,  being  a  man 
In  all  things  fitting  else,  is  most  a  man  ; 
Because  he  wants  no  human  fac'ilty, 
Nor  loses  one  sweet  taste  of  the  sweet  world. 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


197 


TO  LORD  BYRON. 

ON  HIS  DEPARTURE  FOR  ITALY  AND  GREECE. 

SINCE  you  resolve,  dear  Byron,  once  again 
To  taste  the  far-eyed  freedom  of  the  main, 
And  as  the  coolness  lessens  in  the  breeze, 
Strike  for  warm  shores  that  bathe  in  classic  seas, — 
May  all  that  hastens,  pleases,  and  secures, 
Fair  winds  and  skies,  and  a  swift  ship,  be  yours, 
Whose  sidelong  deck  affords,  as  it  cuts  on, 
An  airy  slope  to  lounge  and  read  upon ; 
And  may  the  sun,  cool'd  only  by  white  clouds 
Make  constant  shadows  of  the  sails  and  shrouds ; 
And  may  there  be  sweet,  watching  moons  at  night, 
Or  shows,  upun  the  sea,  of  curious  light ; 
And  morning  wake  with  happy-blushing  mouth, 
As  though  her  husband  still  had  "eyes  of  youth  ;" 
While  fancy,  just  as  you  discern  from  far 
The  coasts  of  Virgil  and  of  Sannazzar, 
May  see  the  nymphs  emerging,  here  and  there, 
To  tie  up  at  the  light  their  rolling  hair. 

I  see  you  now,  half-eagerness,  half-ease, 
Ride  o'er  the  dancing  freshness  of  the  seas ; 
I  see  you  now  (with  fancy's  eyesight  too) 
Find,  with  a  start,  that  lovely  vision  true, 
WThile  on  a  sudden,  o'er  the  horizon's  line 
Phoebus  looks  forth  with  his  long  glance  divine, 
At  which  old  ocean's  white  and  shapely  daughters 
Crowd  in  the  golden  ferment  of  the  waters, 
And  halcyons  brood,  and  there's  a  glistering  show 
Of  harps  midst  bosoms  and  long  arms  of  snow ; 
And  from  the  breathing  sea,  in  the  God's  eye, 
A  gush  of  voices  breaks  up  to  the  sky 
To  hail  the  laurell'd  bard,  that  goes  careering  by. 

And  who,  thus  gifted,  but  must  hear  and  see 
Wonders  like  these,  approaching  Italy  ] — 
Enchantress  Italy, — who  born  again 
In  Gothic  fires,  woke  to  a  sphery  strain, 
And  rose  and  smiled,  far  lovelier  than  before, 
Copier  of  Greece  and  Amazon  no  more, 
But  altogether  a  diviner  thing, 
Fit  for  the  Queen  of  Europe's  second  spring, 
With  fancies  of  her  own,  and  finer  powers 
Not  to  enslave  these  mere  outsides  of  ours, 
But  bend  the  godlike  mind,  and  crown  it  with  her 
flowers. 

Thus  did  she  reign,  bright-eyed,  with  that  sweet 

tone 

Long  in  her  ears ;  and  right  before  her  throne 
Have  sat  the  intellectual  Graces  three, 
Music,  and  painting,  and  wing'd  poetry, 
Of  whom  were  born  those  great  ones,  thoughtful- 
faced, 

That  led  the  hierarchy  of  modern  taste  ; — 
Heavenly  composers,  that  with  bow  symphonious 
Drew  out,  at  last,  music's  whole  soul  harmonious  ; 
Poets,  that  knew  how  Nature  should  be  woo'd, 
With  frank  address,  and  terms  heart-understood; 
And  painters,  worthy  to  be  friends  of  theirs, 
Hands  that  could  catch  the  very  finest  airs 
Of  natural  minds,  and  all  that  soul  express 
Of  reqdy  concord,  which  was  made  to  Mess, 
And  forms  the  secret  of  true  amorousness. 


Not  that  our  English  clime,  how  sharp  soe'er, 
Yields  in  ripe  genius  to  the  warmest  sphere ; 
For  what  we  want  in  sunshine  out  of  doors, 
And  the  long  leisure  of  abundant  shores, 
By  freedom,  nay  by  sufferance,  is  supplied, 
And  each  man's  sacred  sunshine,  his  fire-side. 
But  all  the  four  great  masters  of  our  song, 
Stars  that  shine  out  amidst  a  starry  throng, 
Have  turn'd  to  Italy  for  added  light, 
As  earth  is  kiss'd  by  the  sweet  moon  at  night ; — 
Milton  for  half  his  style,  Chaucer  for  tales, 
Spenser  for  flowers  to  fill  his  isles  and  vales, 
And  Shakspeare's  self  for  frames  already  done 
To  build  his  everlasting  piles  upon. 
Her  genius  is  more  soft,  harmonious,  fine ; 
Our's  bolder,  deeper,  and  more  masculine  : 
In  short,  as  woman's  sweetness  to  man's  force, 
Less  grand,  but  softening  by  the  intercourse, 
So  the  two  countries  are, — so  may  they  be, — 
England  the  high-soul'd  man,  the  charmer  Italy. 

But  I  must,  finish,  and  shall  chatter  less 
On  Greece,  for  reasons  which  yourself  may  guess. 
Only  remember  what  you  promised  me 
About  the  flask  from  dark-well'd  Castally, — 
A  draught,  which  but  to  think  of,  as  I  sit, 
Makes  the  room  round  me  almost  turn  with  wit. 
Gods !    What  may  not  come  true,  what  dream 

divine, 

If  thus  we  are  to  drink  the  Delphic  wine! 
Remember  too  elsewhere  a  certain  town, 
Whose  fame,  you  know,  Caesar  will  not  hand  down. 

And  pray,  my  Lord,  in  Italy  take  care, 
You  that  are  poet,  and  have  pains  to  bear, 
Of  lovely  girls,  that  step  across  the  sight, 
Like  Houris  in  a  heaven  of  warmth  and  light, 
With  rosy-cushion'd  mouths,  in  dimples  set, 
And  ripe  dark  tresses  and  glib  eyes  of  jet. 
The  very  language,  from  a  woman's  tongue, 
Is  worth  the  finest  of  all  others  sung. 

And  so  adieu,  dear  Byron, — dear  to  me 
For  many  a  cause,  disinterestedly  ; — 
First,  for  unconscious  sympathy,  when  boys, 
In  friendship,  and  the  Muse's  trying  joys ; — 
Next  for  that  frank  surprise,  when  Moore  and  you 
Came  to  my  cage,  like  warblers  kind  and  true, 
And  told  me,  with  your  arts  of  cordial  lying, 
How  well  I  look'd,  when  you  both  thought  me 

dying ; — 

Next  for  a  rank  worn  simply,  and  the  scorn 
Of  those  who  trifle  with  an  age  free-born  ; — 
For  early  storms,  on  fortune's  basking  shore, 
That  cut  precocious  ripeness  to  the  core  ; — 
For  faults  unbidden,  other's  virtue's  own'd  ; 
Nay,  unless  Cant's  to  be  at  once  enthroned, 
For  virtues  too,  with  whatsoever  blended, 
And  e'en  were  none  possess'd,  for  none  pretended  ;— 
Lastly,  for  older  friends,  fine  hearts,  held  fast 
Through  every  dash  of  chance,  from  first  to  last ; — 
For  taking  spirit  as  it  means  to  be, — 
For  a  stretch'd  hand,  ever  the  same  to  me, — 
And  total,  glorious  want  of  vile  hypocrisy. 

Adieu,  adieu  : — I  say  no  more. — God  speed  you ! 
Remember  what  we  all  expect,  who  read  you. 
it  2 


198 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


THE  FATAL  PASSION.* 

Now  why  must  I  disturb  a  dream  of  bliss, 
And  bring  cold  sorrow  'twixt  the  wedded  kiss  ? 
How  mar  the  face  of  beauty,  and  disclose 
The  weeping  days  that  with  the  morning  rose, 
And  bring  the  bitter  disappointment  in, — 
The  holy  cheat,  the  virtue-binding  sin, — 
The  shock,  that  told  this  lovely,  trusting  heart, 
That  she  had  given,  beyond  all  power  to  part, 
Her  hope,  belief,  love,  passion,  to  one  brother, 
Possession,  (oh,  the  misery  !)  to  another  ! 

Some  likeness  was  there  'twixt  the  two, — an  air 
At  times,  a  cheek,  a  colour  of  the  hair, 
A  tone,  when  speaking  of  indifferent  things; 
Nor,  by  the  scale  of  common  measurings, 
Would  you  say  more  perhaps,  than  that  the  one 
Was  more  robust,  the  other  finelier  spun  ; 
That  of  the  two,  Giovanni  was  the  graver, 
Paulo  the  livelier,  and  the  more  in  favour. 

Some  tastes  there  were  indeed,  that  would  prefer 
Giovanni's  countenance  as  the  martialler; 
And  'twas  a  soldier's  truly,  if  an  eye 
Ardent  and  cool  at  once,  drawn-back  and  high, 
An  eagle's  nose  and  a  determined  lip 
Were  the  best  marks  of  manly  soldiership. 
Paulo's  was  fashion'd  in  a  different  mould, 
And  surely  the  more  r}ne :  for  though  't  was  bold, 
When  boldness  was  required,  and  could  put  on 
A  glowing  frown  as  if  an  angel  shone, 
Yet  there  was  nothing  in  it  one  might  call 
A  stamp  exclusive  or  professional, — 
No  courtier's  face,  and  yet  its  smile  was  ready, — 
No  scholar's,  yet  its  look  was  deep  and  steady, — 
No  soldier's,  for  its  power  was  all  of  mind, 
Too  true  for  violence,  and  too  refined. 
The  very  nose,  lightly  yet  firmly  wrought, 
Show'd  taste ;"  the  forehead  a  clear-spirited  thought; 
Wisdom  look'd  sweet  and  inward  from  his  eye  ; 
And  round  his  mouth  was  sensibility  : — 
It  was  a  face,  in  short,  seem'd  made  to  show 
How  far  the  genuine  flesh  and  blood  could  go ; — 
A  morning  glass  of  unaffected  nature, — 
Something,  that  baffled  looks  of  loftier  feature, — 
The  visage  of  a  glorious  human  creature. 

If  any  points  there  were,  at  which  they  came 
Nearer  together,  'twas  in  knightly  fame, 
And  all  accomplishments  that  art  may  know, — 
Hunting,  and  princely  hawking,  and  the  bow, 
The  rush  together  in  the  bright-eyed  list, 
Fore-thoughted  chess,  the  riddle  rarely  miss'd, 
And  the  decision  of  still  knottier  points, 
With  knife  in  hand,  of  boar  and  peacock  joints — 
Things,  that  might  shake  the  fame  that  Tristan  got, 
And  bring  a  doubt  on  perfect  Launcelot.-f- 
But  leave  we  knighthood  to  the  former  part ; 
The  tale  I  tell  is  of  the  human  heart. 

The  worst  of  Prince  Giovanni,  as  his  bride 
Too  quickly  found,  was  an  ill-temper'd  pride. 

*  The  Third  Canto  of  Rimini. 

t  The  two  famous  knights  of  the  Round  Table,  crreat 
huntsmen,  and  of  course  great  carvers.  Boars  and  pea- 
cocks, served  uri  whole,  the  latter  with  the  feathers  on, 
were  eminent  dishes  with  the  knights  of  old,  and  must 
have  called  forth  all  the  exercise  of  this  accomplishment. 


Bold,  handsome,  able  (if  he  chose)  to  please, 
Punctual  and  right  in  common  offices, 
He  lost  the  sight  of  conduct's  only  worth, 
The  scattering  smiles  on  this  uneasy  earth, 
And  on  the  strength  of  virtues  of  small  weight, 
Claim'd  tow'rds  himself  the  exercise  of  great. 
He  kept  no  reckoning  with  his  sweets  and  sours ; — 
He'd  hold  a  sullen  countenance  for  hours, 
And  then,  if  pleased  to  cheer  himself  a  space, 
Look  for  the  immediate  rapture  in  your  face, 
And  wonder  that  a  cloud  could  still  be  there, 
How  small  soever,  when  his  own  was  fair. 
Yet  such  is  conscience, — so  design'd  to  keep 
Stern,  central   watch,  though  all  things  else  go 

sleep, 

And  so  much  knowledge  of  one's  self  there  lies 
Cored,  after  all,  in  our  complacencies, 
That  no  suspicion  would  have  touch'd  him  more, 
Than  that  of  wanting  on  the  generous  score; 
He  would  have  whehn'd  you  with  a  weight  of  scorn, 
Been  proud  at  eve,  inflexible  at  morn, 
In  short,  ill-temper'd  for  a  week  to  come, 
And  all  to  strike  that  desperate  error  dumb. 
Taste  had  he,  in  a  word,  for  high-turn'd  merit, 
But  not  the  patience,  nor  the  genial  spirit. 
And  so  he  made,  'twixt  virtue  and  defect, 
A  sort  of  fierce  demand  on  your  respect, 
Which,  if  assisted  by  his  high  degree, 
It  gave  him  in  some  eyes  a  dignity, 
And  struck  a  meaner  deference  in  the  many, 
Left  him  at  last  unloveable  with  any. 

From  this  complexion  in  the  reigning  brother 
His  younger  birth  perhaps  had  saved  the  other. 
Born  to  a  homage  less  gratuitous, 
He  learn'd  to  win  a  nobler  for  his  house; 
And  both  from  habit  and  a  genial  heart, 
Without  much  trouble  of  the  reasoning  art, 
Found  this  the  wisdom  and  the  sovereign  good, — 
To  be,  and  make,  as  happy  as  he  could. 
Not  that  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  beyond 
His  general  age,  and  could  not  be  as  fonJ 
Of  wars  and  creeds  as  any  of  his  race, — 
But  most  he  loved  a  happy  human  face ; 
And  wheresoe'er  his  fine,  frank  eyes  were  thrown, 
He  struck  the  looks  he  wish'd  for,  with  his  own. 
So  what  but  service  leap'd  where'er  he  went ! 
Was  there  a  tilt-day  or  a  tournament, — 
For  welcome  grace  there  rode  not  such  another, 
Not  yet  for  strength,  except  his  lordly  brother. 
Was  there  a  court-day,  or  a  feast,  or  dance, 
Or  minstrelsy  with  roving  plumes  from  France, 
Or  summer  party  to  the  greenwood  shade, 
With  lutes  prepared,  and  cloth  on  herbage  laid, 
And  ladies'  laughter  coming  through  the  air, — 
He  was  the  readiest  and  the  blithest  there ; 
And  made  the  time  so  exquisitely  pass 
With  stories  told  with  elbow  on  the  grass, 
Or  touch'd  the  music  in  his  turn  so  finely, 
That  all  he  did,  they  thought,  was  done  divinely. 

The  lovely  stranger  could  not  fail  to  see 
Too  soon  this  difference,  more  especially 
As  her  consent,  too  lightly  now,  she  thought, 
With  hopes  far  different  bail  boon  strangely  bought; 
And  many  a  time  the  pain  of  that  neglect 
Would  strike  in  blushes  o'er  her  self-respect : 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


199 


But  since  the  ill  was  cureless,  she  applied 
With  busy  virtue  to  resume  her  pride, 
And  hoped  to  value  her  submissive  heart 
On  playing  well  a  patriot  daughter's  part, 
Trying  her  new-found  duties  to  prefer 
To  what  a  father  might  have  owed  to  her. 
The  very  day  too  when  her  first  surprise 
Was  full,  kind  tears  had  come  into  her  eyes 
On  finding,  by  his  care,  her  private  room 
Furnish'd,  like  magic,  from  her  own  at  home; 
The  very  books  and  all  transported  there, 
The  leafy  tapestry,  and  the  crimson  chair, 
The  lute,  the  glass  that  told  the  shedding  hours, 
The  little  urn  of  silver  for  the  flowers, 
The  frame  for  broidering,  with  a  piece  half  done, 
And  the  white  falcon,  basking  in  the  sun, 
Who,  when  he  saw  her,  sidled  on  his  stand, 
And  twined  his  neck  against  her  trembling  hand. 
But  what  had  touch'd  her  nearest,  was  the  thought, 
That  if 'twere  destined  for  her  to  be  brought 
To  a  sweet  mother's  bed,  the  joy  would  be 
Giovanni's  too,  and  his  her  family  : — 
He  seem'd  already  father  of  her  child,         [smiled. 
And  on  the  nestling  pledge  in  patient  thought  she 
Yet  then  a  pang  would  cross  her,  and  the  red 
In  either  downward  cheek  startle  and  spread, 
To  think  that  he,  who  was  to  have  such  part 
In  joys  like  these,  had  never  shared  her  heart ; 
But  then  she  chased  it  with  a  sigh  austere  ; 
And  did  she  chance,  at  times  like  these,  to  hear 
Her  husband's  footstep,  she  would  haste  the  more, 
And  with  a  double  smile  open  the  door, 
And  hope  his  day  had  worn  a  happy  face; 
Ask  how  his  soldiers  pleased  him,  or  the  chase, 
Or  what  new  court  had  sent  to  win  his  sovereign 
grace. 

The  prince,  at  this,  would  bend  on  her  an  eye 
Cordial  enough,  %nd  kiss  her  tenderly  ; 
Nor,  to  say  truth,  was  he  in  general  slow 
To  accept  attentions,  flattering  to  bestow  ; 
But  then  meantime  he  took  no  generous  pains, 
By  mutual  pleasing,  to  secure  his  gains ; 
He  enter'd  not,  in  turn,  in  her  delights, 
Her  books,  her  flowers,  her  taste  for  rural  sights ; 
Nay  scarcely  her  sweet  singing  minded  he, 
Unless  his  pride  was  roused  by  company  ; 
Or  when  to  please  him,  after  martial  play, 
She  strain'd  her  lute  to  some  old  fiery  lay 
Of  fierce  Orlando,  or  of  Ferumbras,     - 
Or  Ryan's  cloak,  or  how  by  the  red  grass 
In  battle  you  might  know  where  Richard  was. 

Yet  all  the  while,  no  doubt,  however  stern 
Or  cold  at  times,  he  thought  he  loved  in  turn, 
And  that  the  joy  he  took  in  her  sweet  ways, 
The  pride  he  felt  when  she  excited  praise, 
In  short,  the  enjoyment  of  his  own  good  pleasure, 
Was  thanks  enough,  and  passion  beyond  measure. 

She,  had  she  loved  him,  might  have  thought  so  too: 
For  what  will  love's  exulting  not  go  through, 
Till  long  neglect,  and  utter  selfishness, 
Shame  the  fond  pride  it  takes  in  its  distress  1 
But  ill  prepared  was  she,  in  her  hard  lot, 
To  fancy  merit  where  she  found  it  not, — 
She,  who  had  been  bfguiled, — she,  who  was  made 
Within  a  gentle  bosom  to  be  laid, — 


To  bless  and  to  be  bless'd, — to  be  heart-bare 
To  one  who  found  his  better' d  likeness  there, — 
To  think  for  ever  with  him,  like  a  bride, — 
To  haunt  his  eye,  like  taste  personified, — 
To  double  his  delight,  to  share  his  sorrow, 
And  like   a  morning  beam,  to  wake  him   every 
morrow. 

Paulo,  meantime,  who  ever  since  the  day 
He  saw  her  sweet  looks  bending  o'er  his  way, 
Had  stored  them  up,  unconsciously,  as  graces 
By  which  to  judge  all  other  forms  and  faces, 
Had  learnt,  I  know  not  how,  the  secret  snare, 
Which  gave  her  up,  that  evening,  to  his  care. 
Some  babbler,  may  be,  of  old  Guido's  court, 
Or  foolish  friend  had  told  him,  half  in  spo-rt: 
But  to  his  heart  the  fatal  flattery  went; 
And  grave  he  grew,  and  inwardly  intent, 
And  ran  back,  in  his  mind,  with  sudden  spring, 
Look,  gesture,  smile,  speech,  silence,  every  thing, 
E'en  what  before  had  seem'd  indifference, 
And  read  them  over  in  another  sense. 
Then  would  he  blush  with  sudden  self-disdain, 
To  think  how  fanciful  he  was,  and  vain  ; 
And  with  half-angry,  half-regretful  sigh, 
Tossing  his  chin,  and  feigning  a  free  eye, 
Breathe  off,  as  'twere,  the  idle  tale,  and  look 
About  him  for  his  falcon  or  his  book, 
Scorning  that  ever  he  should  entertain  [pain. 

One  thought  that  in  the  end  might  give  his  brother 

This  start  however  came  so  often  round, — 
So  often  fell  he  in  deep  thought,  and  found 
Occasion  to  renew  his  carelessness, 
Yet  every  time  the  power  grown  less  and  less, 
That  by  degrees,  half-wearied,  half-inclined, 
To  the  sweet  struggling  image  he  resign'd  ; 
And  merely,  as  he  thought,  to  make  the  best 
Of  what  by  force  would  come  about  his  breast, 
Began  to  bend  down  his  admiring  eyes 
On  all  her  touching  looks  and  qualities, 
Turning  their  shapely  sweetness  every  way, 
Till  'twas  his  food  and  habit  day  by  day, 
And  she  became  companion  of  his  thought; 
Silence  her  gentleness  before  him  brought, 
Society  her  sense,  reading  her  books, 
Music  her  voice,  every  sweet  thing  her  looks, 
Which  sometimes  seem'd,  when  he  sat  fix'd  awhile, 
To  steal  beneath  his  eyes  with  upward  smile 
And  did  he  stroll  into  some  lonely  place, 
Under  the  trees,  upon  the  thick  soft  grass, 
How  charming,  would  he  think,  to  see  her  here ! 
How  heighten'd  then,  and  perfect  would  appear 
The  two  divincst  things  in  earthly  lot, 
A  lovely  woman  in  a  rural  spot  ! 

Thus  daily  went  he  on,  gathering  sweet  pain 
About  his  fancy,  till  it  thrill'd  again  : 
And  if  his  brother's  image,  less  and  less, 
Startled  him  up  from  his  new  idleness, 
'T  was  not — he  fancied, — that  he  reason'd  worse, 
Or  felt  less  scorn  of  wrong,  but  the  reverse. 
That  one  should  think  of  injuring  another, 
Or  trenching  on  his  peace, — this  too  a  brother, — 
And  all  from  selfishness  and  pure  weak  will, 
To  him  serm'd  marvellous  and  impossible. 
'T  is  true,  thought  he,  one  being  more  there  was, 
Who  might  meantime  have  weary  hours  to  pass,' — 


200 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


One  weaker  too  to  bear  them, — and  for  whom  ] — 
No  matter ; — he  could  not  reverse  her  doom  ; 
And  so  he  sigh'd  and  smiled,  as  if  one  thought 
Of  paltering  could  suppose  that  he  was  to  be  caught. 

Yet  if  she  loved  him,  common  gratitude, 
If  not,  a  sense  of  what  was  fair  and  good, 
Besides  his  new  relationship  and  right, 
Would  make  him  wish  to  please  her  all  he  might ; 
And  as  to  thinking, — where  could  be  the  harm, 
If  to  his  heart  he  kept  its  secret  charm  ? 
He  wish'd  not  to  himself  another's  blessing, 
But  then  he  might  console  for  not  possessing; 
And  glorious  things  there  were,  which  but  to  see 
And  not  admire,  were  mere  stupidity  : 
He  might  as  well  object  to  his  own  eyes 
For  loving  to  behold  the  fields  and  skies, 
His  neighbour's  grove,  or  story-painted  hall ; 
'T  was  but  the  taste  for  what  was  natural  ; 
Only  his  fav'rite  thought  was  loveliest  of  them  all. 

Concluding  thus  and  happier  that  he  knew 
His  ground  so  well,  near  and  more  near  he  drew ; 
And,  sanction'd  by  his  brother's  manner,  spent 
Hours  by  her  side,  as  happy  as  well-meant. 
He  read  with  her,  he  rode,  he  train'd  her  hawk, 
He  spent  still  evenings  in  delightful  talk, 
While  she  sat  busy  at  her  broidery  frame ; 
Or  touch'd  the  lute  with  her,  and  when  they  came 
To  some  fine  part,  prepared  her  for  the  pleasure, 
And  then  with  double  smile  stole  on  the  measure. 

Then  at  the  tournament, — who  there  but  she 
Made  him  more  gallant  still  than  formerly, 
Couch  o'er  his  tighten'd  lance  with  double  force, 
Pass  like  the  wind,  sweeping  down  man  and  horse, 
And  franklier  then  than  ever,  midst  the  shout 
And    dancing   trumpets    ride,    uncover'd,   round 

about  1 

His  brother  only,  more  than  hitherto, 
He  would  avoid,  or  sooner  let  subdue, 
Partly  from  something  strange  unfelt  before, 
Partly  because  Giovanni  sometimes  wore 
A  knot  his  bride  had  work'd  him.  green  and  gold: — 
For  in  all  things  with  nature  did  she  hold ; 
And  while  'twas  being  work'd,  her  fancy  was 
Of  sunbeams  mingling  with  a  tuft  of  grass. 

Francesca  from  herself  but  ill  could  hide 
What  pleasure  now  was  added  to  her  side, — 
How  placidly,  yet  fast,  the  days  flew  on 
Thus  link'd  in  white  and  loving  unison  ; 
And  how  the  chair  he  sat  in,  and  the  room, 
Began  to  look,  when  he  had  fail'd  to  come. 
But  as  she  better  knew  the  cause  than  he, 
She  seem'd  to  have  the  more  necessity 
For  struggling  hard,  and  rousing  all  her  pride  ; 
And  so  she  did  at  first ;  she  even  tried 
To  feel  a  sort  of  anger  at  his  care  : 
But  these  extremes  brought  but  a  kind  despair  ; 
And  then  she  only  spoke  more  sweetly  to  him 
And  found  her  failing  eyes  give  looks  that  melted 
through  him. 

Giovanni  too,  who  felt  relieved  indeed 
To  see  another  to  his  place  succeed, 
Or  rather  filling  up  some  trifling  hours, 
Better  spent  elsewhere,  and  beneath  his  powers, 
Left  the  new  tie  to  strengthen  day  by  day, 
Talk'd  less  and  less,  and  longer  kept  away, 


Secure  in  his  self-love  and  sense  of  right, 

That  he  was  welcome  most,  come  when  he  might. 

And  doubtless,  they,  in  their  still  finer  sense, 

With  added  care  repaid  this  confidence, 

Turning  their  thoughts  from  his  abuse  of  it, 

To  what  on  their  own  parts  was  graceful  and  was  fit. 

Ah  now,  ye  gentle  pair, — now  think  awhile, 
Now,  while  ye  still  can  think,  and  still  can  smile ; 
Now,  while  your  generous  hearts  have  not  been 

grieved 

Perhaps  with  something  not  to  be  retrieved, 
And  ye  have  still,  within,  the  power  of  gladness, 
From  self-resentment  free,  and  retrospective  mad- 
ness ! 

So  did  they  think — but  partly  from  delay, 
Partly  from  fancied  ignorance  of  the  way, 
And  most  from  feeling  the  bare  contemplation, 
Give  them  fresh  need  of  mutual  consolation, 
They  scarcely  tried  to  see  each  other  less, 
And  did  but  meet  with  deeper  tenderness, 
Living,  from  day  to  day,  as  they  were  used, 
Only  with  graver  thoughts,  and  smiles  reduced, 
And  sighs  more  frequent,  which,  when  one  would 

heave, 

The  other  long'd  to  start  up  and  receive. 
For  whether  some  suspicion  now  had  cross'd 
Giovanni's  mind,  or  whether  he  had  lost 
More  of  his  temper  lately,  he  would  treat 
His  wife  with  petty  scorns,  and  starts  of  heat, 
And,  to  his  own  omissions  proudly  blind, 
O'erlook  the  pains  she  took  to  make  him  kind, 
And  yet  be  angry,  if  he  thought  them  less; 
He  found  reproaches  in  her  meek  distress, 
Forcing  her  silent  tears,  and  then  resenting, 
Then  almost  angrier  grown  from  half  repenting, 
And,  hinting,  at  the  last,  that  some  there  were 
Better  perhaps  than  he,  and  taste  fuller, 
And  these,  for  what  he  knew, — he  little  cared, — 
Might  please  her,  and  be  pleased,  though  he  de- 
spair'd. 

Then  would  he  quit  the  room,  and  half-disdain 
Himself  for  being  in  so  harsh  a  strain, 
And  venting  thus  his  temper  on  a  woman ; 
Yet  not  the  more  for  that  changed  he  in  common, 
Or  took  more  pains  to  please  her,  and  be  near : — 
What!  should  he  truckle  to  a  woman's  tear] 

At  times  like  the.«e  the  princess  tried  to  shun 
The  face  of  Paulo  as  too  kind  a  one; 
And  shutting  up  her  tears  with  final  sigh, 
Would  walk  into  the  air,  and  see  the  sky, 
And  feel  about  her  all  the  garden  green, 
And  hear  the   birds  that  shot  the  covert  boughs 

between. 

A  noble  ranp:e  it  was,  of  many  a  rood, 
Wall'd  round  with  trees,  and  ending  in  a  wood: 
Indeed  the  whole  was  leafy  ;  and  it  had 
A  winding  stream  about,  it.  clear  and  glad, 
That  danced  from  shade  to  shade,  and  on  its  way 
Seem'd  smiling  with  delight  to  feel  the  day. 
There  was  the  pouting  rose,  both  red  and  white, 
The  flamy  heart's-ease,  flush 'd  with  purple  light, 
Blush-hiding  strawberry,  sunny-colour' d  box, 
Hyacinth,  handsome  with  its  clustering  locks, 
The  ladv  lily,  looking  ofently  down, 
Pure  lavender,  to  lay  in  bridal  gown, 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


201 


The  daisy,  lovely  on  both  sides, — in  short, 

All  the  sweet  cups  to  which  the  bees  resort, 

With  plots  of  grass,  and  perfumed  walks  between 

Of  citron,  honeysuckle,  and  jessamine, 

With  orange,  whose  warm  leaves  so  finely  suit, 

And  look  as  if  they  shade  a  golden  fruit ; 

And  midst  the  flowers,  turf 'd  round  beneath  a  shade 

Of  circling  pines,  a  babbling  fountain  play'd, 

And  'twixt  their  shafts  you  saw  the  water  bright, 

Which  through  the  darksome  tops  glimmer'd  with 

show'ring  light. 

So  now  you  walk'd  beside  an  odorous  bed 
Of  gorgeous  hues,  white,  azure,  golden,  red ; 
And  now  turn'd  off  into  a  leafy  walk, 
Close  and  continuous,  fit  for  lovers'  talk  ; 
And  now  pursued  the  stream,  and  as  you  trod 
Onward  and  onward  o'er  the  velvet  sod, 
Felt  on  your  face  an  air,  watery  and  sweet, 
And  a  new  sense  in  your  soft-lighting  feet; 
And  then  perhaps  you  enter'd  upon  shades, 
Pillow'd  with  dells  and  uplands  'twixt  the  glades, 
Through  which  the  distant  palace,  now  and  then, 
Look'd  lordly  forth  with  many-window'd  ken ; 
A  land  of  trees,  which  reaching  round  about, 
In  shady  blessing  stretch'd  their  old  arms  out, 
With  spots  of  sunny  opening,  and  with  nooks, 
To  lie  and  read  in,  sloping  into  brooks, 
Where  at  her  drink  you  started  the  slim  deer, 
Retreating  lightly  with  a  lovely  fear. 
And  all  about,  the  birds  kept  leafy  house, 
And  sung  and  sparkled  in  and  out  the  boughs ; 
And  all  about,  a  lovely  sky  of  blue 
Clearly  was  felt,  or  down  the  leaves  laugh'd  through; 
And  here  and  there,  in  every  part,  were  seats, 
Some  in  the  open  walks,  some  in  retreats  ; 
With  bowering  leaves  o'erhead,  to  which  the  eye 
Look'd  up  halt-sweetly  and  half-awfully, — 
Places  of  nestling  green,  for  poets  made, 
Where,  when  the  stinshine  struck  a  yellow  shade, 
The  rugged  trunks,  to  inward  peeping  sight, 
Throng'd  in  dark  pillars  up  the  gold  green  light. 

But  'twixt  the  wood  and  flowery  walks,  halfway, 
And  form'd  of  both,  the  loveliest  portion  lay, 
A  spot,  that  struck  you  like  enchanted  ground  : — 
It  was  a  shallow  dell,  set  in  a  mound 
Of  sloping  shrubs,  that  mounted  by  degrees, 
The  birch  and  poplar  mix'd  with  heavier  trees ; 
From  under  which,  sent  through  a  marble  spout, 
Betwixt  the  dark  wet  green,  a  rill  gush'd  out, 
Whose  low,  sweet  talking  seem'd  as  if  it  said 
Something  eternal  to  that  happy  shade. 
The  ground  within  was  lawn,  with  plots  of  flowers 
Heap'd  towards  the  centre,  and  with  citron  bowers  ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  all,  cluster'd  with  bay 
And  myrtle,  and  just  gleaming  to  the  day, 
Lurk'd  a  pavilion, — a  delicious  sight, — 
Small,  marble,  well-proportion'd,  mellowy  white, 
With  yellow  vine-leaves  sprinkled, — but  no  more, — 
And  a  young  orange  either  side  the  door. 
The  door  was  to  the  wood,  forward,  and  square, 
The  rest  was  domed  at  top,  and  circular ; 
And  through  the.  dome  the  only  light  came  in, 
Tinged,  as  it  enter'd,  with  the  vine-leaves  thin. 

It  was  a  beauteous  piece  of  ancient  skill, 
Spared  from  the  rage  of  war,  and  perfect  still ; 
26 


By  some  supposed  the  work  of  fairy  hands, 
Famed  for  luxurious  taste,  and  choice  of  lands, — 
Alcina,  or  Morgana, — who  from  fights 
And  errant  fame  enveigled  amorous  knights, 
And  lived  with  them  iu  a  long  round  of  blisses, 
Feasts,  concerts,  baths,  and  bovver-enshaded  kisses. 
But  'twas  a  temple,  as  its  sculpture  told, 
Built  to  the  nymphs  that  haunted  there  of  old  ; 
For  o'er  the  door  was  carved  a  sacrifice 
By  girls  and  shepherds  brought,  with  reverend  eyes, 
Of  sylvan  drinks  and  food,  simple  and  sweet, 
And  goats  with  struggling  horns  and  planted  feet : 
And  round  about,  ran  on  a  line  with  this 
In  like  relief,  a  world  of  Pagan  bliss, 
That  show'd,  in  various  scenes,  the  nymphs  them- 
selves : 

Some  by  the  water-side  on  bowery  shelves 
Leaning  at  will, — some  in  the  water  sporting 
With  sides  half  swelling  forth,  and  looks  of  courting, 
Some  in  a  flowery  dell,  hearing  a  swain 
Play  on  his  pipe,  till  the  hills  ring  again, — 
Some  tying  up  their  long  moist  hair,  some  sleeping 
Under  the  trees,  with  fauns  and  satyrs  peeping, — 
Or  sidelong-eyed,  pretending  not  to  see 
The  latter  in  the  brakes  come  creepingly, 
Wrhile  from  their  careless  urns,  lying  aside 
In  the  long  grass,  the  straggling  waters  slide. 
Never,  be  sure,  before  or  since  was  seen 
A  summer-house  so  fine  in  such  a  nest  of  green. 

All  the  green  garden,  flower-bed,  shade,  and  plot, 
Francesca  loved,  but  most  of  all  this  spot. 
Whenever  she  walk'd  forth,  wherever  went, 
About  the  grounds,  to  this  at  last  she  bent: 
Here  she  had  brought  a  lute  and  a  few  books ; 
Here  would  she  lie  for  hours,  with  grateful  looks 
Thanking  at  heart  the  sunshine  and  the  leaves, 
The  vernal  rain-drops  counting  from  the  eaves, 
And  all  that  promising,  calm  smile  we  see 
In  nature's  face,  when  we  look  patiently. 
Then  would  she  think  of  heaven;  and  you  might 

hear 

Sometimes  when  every  thing  was  hush'd  and  clear, 
Her  gentle  voice  from  out  those  shades  emerging, 
Singing  the  evening  anthem  to  the  virgin. 
The  gardeners  and  the  rest,  who  served  the  place, 
And  blest  whenever  they  beheld  her  face, 
Knelt  when  they  heard  it,  bowing  and  uncover'd, 
And  felt  as  if  in  air  some  sainted  beauty  hover'd. 

One  day, — 'twas  on  a  summer  afternoon, 
When  airs  and  gurgling  brooks  are  best  in  tune, 
And  grasshoppers  are  loud,  and  day-work  done, 
And  shades  have  heavy  outlines  in  the  sun, — 
The  princess  came  to  her  accustom'd  bower 
To  get  her,  if  she  could,  a  soothing  hour, 
Trying,  as  she  was  used,  to  leave  her  cares 
Without,  and  slumberously  enjoy  the  airs, 
And  the  low-talking  leaves,  and  that  cool  light 
The  vines  let  in,  and  all  that  hushing  sight 
Of  closing  wood  seen  through  the  opening  door, 
And  distant  plash  of  waters  tumbling  o'er, 
And  smell  of  citron  blooms,  and  fifty  luxuries  more. 

She  tried,  as  usual,  for  the  trial's  sake, 
For  even  that  diminish'd  her  heart-ache  ; 
And  never  yet,  how  ill  soe'er  at  ease, 
Came  she  for  nothing  midst  the  flowers  and  trees. 


202 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


Yet  how  it  was  she  knew  not,  but  that  day, 
She  seem'd  to  feel  too  lightly  borne  away, — 
Too  much  relieved, — too  much  inclined  to  draw 
A  careless  joy  from  every  thing  she  saw, 
And  looking  round  her  with  a  new-born  eye, 
As  if  some  tree  of  knowledge  had  been  nigh, 
To  taste  of  nature,  primitive  and  free, 
And  bask  at  ease  in  her  heart's  liberty. 

Painfully  clear  those  rising  thoughts  appear'd, 
With  something  dark  at  bottom  that  she  fear'd  ; 
And  turning  from  the  fields  her  thoughtful  look, 
She  reach'd  o'er  head,  and  took  her  down  a  book, 
And  fell  to  reading  with  as  fix'd  an  air, 
As  though  she  had  been  wrapt  since  morning  there. 

'T  was  Launcelot  of  the  Lake,  a  bright  romance, 
That,  like  a  trumpet,  made  young  pulses  dance, 
Yet  had  a  softer  note  that  shook  still  more ; — 
She  had  begun  it  but  the  day  before, 
And  read  with  a  full  heart,  half-sweet,  half-sad, 
How  old  King  Ban  was  spoil'd  of  all  he  had 
But  one  fair  castle:   how  one  summer's  day 
With  his  fair  queen  and  child  he  went  avv.iy 
To  ask  the  great  King  Arthur  for  assistance ; 
How  reaching  by  himself  a  hill  at  distance, 
He  turn'd  to  give  his  castle  a  last  look, 
And  saw  its  far  white  face  :  and  how  a  smoke, 
As  he  was  looking,  burst  in  volumes  forth, 
And  good  King  Ban  saw  all  that  he  was  worth, 
And  liis  fair  castle,  burning  to  the  ground, 
So  that  his  wearied  pulse  felt  over-wound, 
And  he  lay  down,  and  said  a  prayer  apart 
For  those  he  loved,  and  broke  his  poor  old  heart. 
Then  read  she  of  the  queen  with  her  young  child, 
How  she  came  up,  and  nearly  had  gone  wild, 
And  how  in  journeying  on  in  her  despair, 
She  reach'd  a  lake  and  met  a  lady  there, 
Who  pitied  her,  and  took  the  baby  sweet 
Into  her  arms,  when  lo,  with  closing  feet 
She  sprang  up  all  at  once,  like  bird  from  brake, 
And  vanish'd  with  him  underneath  the  lake. 
The  mother's  feelings  we  as  well  may  pass  : — 
The  fairy  of  the  place  that  lady  was, 
And  Launcelot  (so  the  boy  was  call'd)  became 
Her  inmate,  till  in  search  of  knightly  fame 
He  went  to  Arthur's  court,  and  play'd  his  part 
So  rarely,  and  display'd  so  frank  a  heart, 
That  what  with  all  his  charms  of  look  and  limb, 
The  Queen  Geneura  fell  in  love  with  him : 
And  here,  with  growing  interest  in  her  reading, 
The  princess,  doubly  fix'd  was  now  proceeding. 

Ready  she  sat  with  one  hand  to  turn  o'er 
The  leaf,  to  which  her  thoughts  ran  on  before, 
The  other  propping  her  white  brow,  and  throwing 
Its  ringlets  out,  under  the  skylight  glowing. 
So  sat  she  fix'd  ;  and  so  observed  was  she 
Of  one,  who  at  the  door  stood  tenderly, — 
Paulo, — who  from  a  window  seeing  her 
Go  straight  across  the  lawn,  and  guessing  where 
Had  thought  she  was  in  tears,  and  found,  that  day, 
His  usual  efforts  vain  to  keep  away. 
«  May  I  come  in  1"  said  he  : — it  made  her  start, — 
That  smiling   voice ; — she   colour'd,  press'd  her 

heart 

A  moment,  as  for  breath,  and  then  with  free 
And  usual  tone  said,  "  O  yes, — certainly." 


There  's  wont  to  be,  at  conscious  times  like  these, 

An  affectation  of  a  bright-eyed  ease, 

An  air  of  something  quite  serene  and  sure, 

As  if  to  seem  so,  were  to  be  secure  : 

With  this  the  lovers  met,  with  this  they  spoke, 

With  this  they  sat  down  to  the  self-same  book, 

And  Paulo,  by  degrees,  gently  embraced 

With  one  permitted  arm  her  lovely  waist ; 

And  both  their  cheeks,  like  peaches  on  a  tree, 

Lean'd  with  a  touch  together,  thriliingly  ; 

And  o'er  the  book  they  hung,  and  nothing  said, 

And  every  lingering  page  grew  longer  as  they  read. 

As  thus  they  sat,  and  felt  with  leaps  of  heart 
Their  colour  change,  they  came  upon  the  part 
Where  fond  Geneura,  with  her  flame  long  nurst, 
Smiled  upon  Launcelot  when  he  kiss'd  her  first: 
That  touch,  at  last,  through  every  fibre  slid ; 
And  Paulo  turn'd,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did, 
Only  he  felt  he  could  no  more  dissemble, 
And  kiss'd  her,  mouth  to  mouth,  all  in  a  tremble. 
Sad  were  those  hearts,  and  sweet  was  that  long  kiss : 
Sacred  be  love  from  sight,  whate'er  it  is. 
The  world  was  all  forgot,  the  struggle  o'er, 
Desperate  the  joy, — That  day  they  read  no  more. 


KOSCIUSKO. 

'Tis  like  thy  patient  valour  thus  to  keep, 
Great  Kosciusko,  to  the  rural  shade, 
While  freedom's  ill-found  amulet  still  is  made 

Pretence  for  old  aggression,  and  a  heap 

Of  selfish  mockeries.     There,  as  in  the  sweep 
Of  stormier  fields,  thou  earnest  with  thy  blade, 
Transform'd,  not  inly  alter'd,  to  the  spade, 

Thy  never-yielding  right  to  a  calm  sleep.         [wit 
Nature,  't  would  seem,  would  leave  to  man's  worse 

The  small  and  noisier  parts  of  this  world's  frame, 
And  keep  the  calm  green  amplitudes  of  it 

Sacred  from  fopperies  and  inconstant  blame. 
Cities  may  change,  and  sovereigns;  but  'tis  fit, 

Thou,  and  the  country  old,  be  still  the  same. 


ARIADNE. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

THE  moist  and  quiet  morn  was  scarcely  breaking, 

When  Ariadne  in  her  bower  was  waking; 

Her  eyelids  still  were  closing,  and  she  heard 

But  indistinctly  yet  a  little  bird, 

That  in  the  leaves  o'erhead,  waiting  the  sun, 

Seem'd  answering  another  distant  one. 

She  waked,  but  stirr'd  not,  only  just  to  please 

Her  pillow-nestling  cheek  ;  while  the  full  seas, 

The  birds,  the  leaves,  the  lulling  love  o'ernight, 

The  happy  thought  of  the  returning  light, 

The  sweet,  self-will'd  content,  conspired  to  keep 

Her  senses  lingering  in  the  field  of  sleep ; 

And  with  a  little  smile  she  seem'd  to  say, 

"  I  know  my  love  is  near  me,  and  't  is  day." 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


203 


MAHMOUD. 

THERE  came  a  man,  making  his  hasty  moan 
Before  the  Sultan  Mahmoud  on  his  throne, 
And  crying  out — "  My  sorrow  is  my  right, 
And  I  will  see  the  Sultan,  and  to-night." 
"  Sorrow,"  said  Mahmoud,  "  is  a  reverend  thing : 
I  recognise  its  right,  as  king  with  king; 
Speak  on."     «  A  fiend  has  got  into  my  house," 
Exclaim'd  the  staring  man,  "and  tortures  us: 
One  of  thine  officers  ; — he  comes,  the  abhorr'd, 
And  takes  possession  of  my  house,  my  hoard, 
My  bed  :  I  have  two  daughters  and  a  wife,    [life." 
And  the  wild  villain  comes,  and  makes  me  mad  with 
"  Is  he  there  now  1"  said  Mahmoud.    "  No;  he  left 
The  house  when  I  did,  of  my  wits  bereft ; 
And  laugh'd  me  down  the  street,  because  I  vow'd 
I'd  bring  the  prince  himself  to  lay  him  in  his  shroud. 
I'm  mad  with  want — I'm  mad  with  misery,     [thee!" 
And  O  thou  Sultan  Mahmoud,  God  cries  out  for 

The  Sultan  comforted  the  man,  and  said, 
"  Go  home,  and  I  will  send  thee  wine  and  bread," 
(For  he  was  poor,)  «  and  other  comforts.     Go  ; 
And,  should  the  wretch  return,  let  Sultan  Mah- 
moud know." 

In  three  days'  time,  with  haggard  eyes  and  beard, 
And  shaken  voice,  the  suitor  re-appear'd,      [word, 
And  said,  "  He's  come." — Mahmoud  said  not  a 
But  rose  and  took  four  slaves,  each  with  a  sword, 
And  went  with  the  vex'd  man.  They  reach  the  place, 
And  hear  a  voice,  and  see  a  woman's  face, 
That  to  the  window  flutter'd  in  affright: 
"Go  in,"  said  Mahmoud,  "and  put  out  the  light ; 
But  tell  the  females  firs*  to  leave  the  room ; 
And  when  the  drunkard  follows  them,  we  come." 
The  man  went  in.      There  was  a  cry,  and  hark  ! 
A  table  falls,  the  window  is  struck  dark: 
Forth  rush  the  breathless  women ;  and  behind 
With  curses  comes  the  fiend  in  desperate  mind. 
In  vain  :  the  sabres  soon  cut  short  the  strife,       [life. 
And  chop  the  shrieking  wretch,  and  drink  his  bloody 
«  Now  light  the  light,"  the  Sultan  cried  aloud. 
'Twas  done  ;  he  took  it  in  his  hand,  and  bow'd 
Over  the  corpse,  and  look'd  upon  the  face; 
Then  turn'd,  and  knelt,  and  to  the  throne  of  grace 
Put  up  a  prayer,  and  from  his  lips  there  crept 
Some  gentle  words  of  pleasure,  and  he  wept. 

In  reverent  silence  the  beholders  wait, 
Then  bring  him  at  his  call  both  wine  and  meat; 
And  when  he  had  refresh'd  his  noble  heart, 
He  bade  his  host  be  blest,  and  rose  up  to  depart. 
The  man  amazed,  all  mildness  now,  and  tears, 
Fell  at  the  Sultan's  feet  with  many  prayers, 
And  begg'd  him  to  vouchsafe  to  tell  his  slave 
The  reason  first  of  that  command  he  gave 
About  the  light ;  then,  when  he  saw  the  face, 
Why  he  knelt  down ;  and,  lastly,  how  it  was 
That  fare  so  poor  as  his  detain'd  him  in  the  place. 

The  Sultan  said,  with  a  benignant  eye, 
"  Since  first  I  saw  thee  come,  and  heard  thy  cry, 
I  could  not  rid  me  of  a  dread,  that  one 
By  whom  such  daring  villanies  were  done 
Must  be  some  lord  of  mine,  ay,  e'en  perhaps  a  son. 
Whoe'er  he  was,  I  knew  my  task,  but  fear'd 
A  father's  heart,  in  case  the  worst  appear'd  : 


For  this  I  had  the  light  put  out;  but  when 
I  saw  the  face,  arid  found  a  stranger  slain, 
I  knelt  and  thank'd  the  sovereign  Arbiter, 
Whose  work  I  had  perform'd  through  pain  and  fear; 
And  then  I  rose  and  was  refresh'd  with  food, 
The  first  time  since  thy  voice  had  marr'd  my  soli- 
tude." 


POWER  AND  GENTLENESS. 

I'VE  thought,  at  gentle  and  ungentle  hour, 
Of  many  an  act  and  giant  shape  of  power; 
Of  the  old  kings  with  high  exacting  looks, 
Sceptred  and  globed  ;  of  eagles  on  their  rocks, 
With  straining  feet,  and  that  fierce  mouth  and  drear, 
Answering  the  strain  with  downward  drag  austere  ; 
Of  the  rich-headed  lion,  whose  huge  frown 
All  his  great  nature,  gathering,  seems  to  crown  ; 
Of  towers  on  hills,  with  foreheads  out  of  sight 
In  clouds,  or  shown  us  by  the  thunder's  light, 
Or  ghastly  prison,  that  eternally 
Holds  its  blind  visage  out  to  the  lone  sea; 
And  of  all  sunless,  subterranean  deeps 
The  creature  makes,  who  listens  while  he  sleeps, 
Avarice  ;  and  then  of  those  old  earthly  cones, 
That  stride,  they  say,  over  heroic  bones ; 
And  those  stone  heaps  Egyptian,  whose  small  doors 
Look  like  low  dens  under  precipitous  shores ; 
And  him,  great  Memnon,  that  long  sitting  by 
In  seeming  idleness,  with  stony  eye, 
Sang  at  the  morning's  touch,  like  poetry  ; 
And  then  of  all  the  fierce  and  bitter  fruit 
Of  the  proud  planting  of  a  tyrannous  foot, — 
Of  bruised  rights,  and  flourishing  bad  men, 
And  virtue  wasting  heavenwards  from  a  den ; 
Brute  force,  and  fury  ;  and  the  devilish  drouth 
Of  the  fool  cannon's  ever-gaping  mouth  ; 
And  the  bride-widowing  sword ;  and  the  harsh  bray 
The  sneering  trumpet  sends  across  the  fray ; 
And  all  which  lights  the  people-thinning  star 
That  selfishness  invokes, — the  horsed  war, 
Panting  along  with  many  a  bloody  mane. 

I've  thought  of  all  this  pride,  and  all  this  pain, 
And  all  the  insolent  plenitudes  of  power, 
And  I  declare,  by  this  most  quiet  hour, 
Which  holds  in  different  tasks  by  the  fire-light 
Me  and  my  friends  here,  this  delightful  night, 
That  power  itself  has  not  one  half  the  might 
Of  gentleness.     'Tis  want  to  all  true  wealth  ; 
The  uneasy  madman's  force,  to  the  wise  health  ; 
Blind  downward  beating,  to  the  eyes  that  see; 
Noise  to  persuasion,  doubt  to  certainty  ; 
The  consciousness  of  strength  in  enemies, 
Who  must  be  strain'd  upon,  or  else  they  rise ; 
The  battle  to  the  moon,  who  all  the  while, 
High  out  of  hearing,  passes  with  her  smile ; 
The  tempest,  trampling  in  his  scanty  run, 
To  the  whole  globe,  that  basks  about  the  sun  : 
Or  as  all  shrieks  and  clangs,  with  which  a  sphere, 
Undone  and  fired,  could  rake  the  midnight  ear, 
Compared  with  that  vast  dumbness  nature  keeps 

Throughout  her  starry  deeps, 
Most  old,  and  mild,  and  awful,  and  unbroken, 
Which  tells  a  tale  of  peace  beyond  whate'er  was 
spoken.  ' 


204 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


THE  GLOVE  AND  THE  LIONS. 

KING  FRANCIS  was  a  hearty  king,  and  loved  a 

royal  sport, 
And  one  day,  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on  the 

court. ; 
The  nobles  fill'd  the  benches,  and  the  ladies  in  their 

pride, 
And  'mongst  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge,  with 

one  for  whom  he  sigh'd  : 

And  truly  'twas  a  gallant  thing  to  see  that  crown- 
ing show, 
Valour  and  love,  and  a  king  above,  and  the  royal 

beasts  below.  [jaws; 

Ramp'd  and  roar'd  the  lions,  with  horrid  laughing 
They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows   like  beams,  a 

wind  went  with  their  paws ; 
With  wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar  they  roll'd 

on  one  another, 

Till  all  the  pit  with  sand  and  mane  was  in  a  thun- 
derous smother  ; 
The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came  whisking 

through  the  air; 
Said  Francis  then,  "  Faith,  gentlemen,  we're  better 

here  than  there." 
De  Lorge's  love  o'erheard  the  king,  a  beauteous 

lively  dame 
With  smiling  lips  and  sharp  bright  eyes,  which 

alway  seem'd  the  same  ; 
She  thought,  the  count  my  lover  is  brave  as  brave 

can  be ; 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show  his 

love  of  me ; 
King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on ;  the  occasion  is 

divine ; 
I'll  drop  my  glove  to  prove  his  love ;  great  glory 

shall  be  mine. 
She  dropo'd  her  glove  to  prove  his  love,  then  look'd 

at  him  and  smiled  ;  [wild  : 

He  bow'd,  and  in  a  moment  leap'd  among  the  lions 
The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick,  he  has  re- 

gain'd  ,the  place, 
Then  threw  the  glove,  but  not  with  love,  right  in 

t'ie  lady's  face. 
«  By  God  !"    said  Francis,  "  rightly  done  !"    and 

he  rose  from  where  he  sat ; 
"  No  love,"  quoth  he,  "  but  vanity,  sets  love  a  task 

like  that." 


AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who  have  never 
Been  dead  indeed, — as  we  shall  know  for  ever. 
Alas !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths, — angels,  that  are  to  be, 
Or^nay  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air, — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 


A  HEAVEN  UPON    EARTH. 

FOR  there  are  two  heavens,  sweet, 
Both  made  of  love, — one,  inconceivable 
Even  by  the  other,  so  divine  it  is; 
The  other,  far  on  this  side  of  the  stars, 
By  men  call'd  home,  when  some  blest  pair  are  met 
As  we  are  now ;  sometimes  in  happy  talk, 
Sometimes  in  silence,  each  at  gentle  task 
Of  book,  or  household  need,  or  meditation, 
By  summer-moon,  or  curtain'd  fire  in  frost; 
And  by  degrees  there  come, — not  always  come, 
Yet  mostly, — other,  smaller  inmates  there, 
Cherubic-faced,  yet  growing  like  those  two, 
Their  pride  and  playmates,  not  without  meek  fear, 
Since  God  sometimes  to  his  own  cherubim 
Takes  those  sweet  cheeks  of  earth.  And  so  twixt  joy, 
And  love,  and  tears,  and  whatsoever  pain 
Man  fitly  shares  with  man,  these  two  grow  old; 
And  if  indeed  blest  thoroughly,  they  die 
In  the  same  spot,  and  nigh  the  same  good  hour, 
And  setting  suns  look  heavenly  on  their  grave. 


THE  RAVENNA  PINE  FOREST. 

A  HEAVY  spot  the  forest  looks  at  first, 
To  one  grim  shade  condemn'd,  and  sandy  thirst, 
Chequer'd  with  thorns,  and  thistles  run  to  seed, 
Or  plashy  pools  half-cover'd  with  green  weed, 
About  whose  sides  the  swarming  insects  fry 
In  the  hot  sun,  a  noisome  company  ; 
But,  entering  more  and  more,  they  quit  the  sand 
At  once,  and  strike  upon  a  grassy  land, 
From  which  the  trees  as  from  a  carpet  rise 
In  knolls  and  clumps,  in  rich  varieties. 
The  knights  are  for  a  moment  forced  to  rein 
Their  horses  in,  which,  feeling  turf  again, 
Thrill,  and  curvet,  and  long  to  be  at  large 
To  scour  the  space,  and  give  the  winds  a  charge, 
Or  pulling  tight  the  bridles  as  they  pass, 
Dip  their  warm  mouths  into  the  freshening  grass: 
But  soon  in  easy  rank,  from  glade  to  glade, 
Proceed  they,  coasting  underneath  the  shade ; 
Some  bearing  to  the  cool  their  placid  brows, 
Some    looking  upward   through   the   glimmering 
Or  peering  into  spots  that  inwardly  [boughs, 

Open  green  glooms,  and  half-prepared  to  see 
The  lady  cross  it,  that,  as  stories  tell, 
Ran  loud  and  torn  before  a  knight  of  hell. 
Various  the  trees  and  passing  foliage  here, — 
Wild  pear,  and  oak,  and  dusky  juniper, 
With  briony  between  in  trails  of  white, 
And  ivy,  and  the  suckle's  streaky  light, 
And  moss,  warm  gleaming  with  a  sudden  mark, 
Like  growths  of  sunshine  left  upon  the  bark ; 
And  still  the  pine,  flat-topp'd,  and  dark,  and  tall, 
In  lordly  right  predominant  o'er  all. 
Anon  the  sweet  birds,  like  a  sudden  throng 
Of  happy  children,  ring  their  tangled  song 
From  out  the  greener  trees ;  and  then  a  cloud 
Of  cawing  rooks  breaks  o'er  them,  gathering  loud 
Like  savages  at  ships ;  and  then  again 
Nothing  is  heard  but  their  own  stately  train, 
Or  ring-dove  that  repeats  his  pensive  )»ler», 
Or  startled  gull  up-screaming  toward  the  sea. 


LEIGH    HUNT. 


205 


THE  NILE. 

IT  flows  through  old  hush'd  Egypt  and  its  sands, 

Like  some  grave  mighty  thought  threading  a 
dream, 

And  times  and  things,  as  in  that  vision,  seem 
Keeping  along  it  their  eternal  stands, — 
Caves,  pillars,  pyramids,  the  shepherd  bands 

That  roam'd  through  the  young  world,  the  glory 
extreme 

Of  high  Sesostris,  and  that  southern  beam, 
The  laughing  queen  that  caught  the  world's  great 
hands. 

Then  comes  a  mightier  silence,  stern  and  strong, 

As  of  a  world  left  empty  of  its  throng, 
And  the  void  weighs  on  us ;  and  then  we  wake, 

And  hear  the  fruitful  stream  lapsing  along 
'Twixt  villages,  and  think  how  we  shall  take 
Our  own  calm  journey  on  for  human  sake. 


ABOU  BEN  ADEEM -AND  THE  ANGEL. 

ABOIT  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moon  light  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  ; 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhern  bold: 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
"What  writest  thou  V  The  vision  rais'd  its  head, 
And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answer'd,"The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
"  And  is  mine  one  1"  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still ;  and  sail,  "I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote  and  vanish'd.    The  next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  show'd  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had 

bless'd, 
And,  lo !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


SPRING  IN  RAVENNA. 

TUB  sun  is  up,  and  'tis  a  morn  of  May 
Round  old  Ravenna's  clear-shown  towers  and  bay, 
A  morn,  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seen, 
Last  of  the  spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green ; 
For  a  warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  night, 
Have  left  a  sparkling  welcome  for  the  light, 
And  there's  a  crystal  clearness  all  about; 
The  leaves  are  sharp,  the  distant  hills  look  out; 
A  balmy. briskness  cornes  upon  the  breeze; 
The  smoke  goes  dancing  fiorn  the  cottage  trees; 
And  when  you  listen,  you  may  hear  a  coil, 
Of  bubbling  springs  about  the  grassy  soil: 
And  all  the  scene,  in  short — sky,  earth,  and  sea — 
Breathes  like  a  bright-eyed  face,  that  laughs  out 
openly. 

'T  is  Nature,  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  springing: — 
The  birds  to  the  delicious  time  are  singing1, 


Darting  with  freaks  and  snatches  up  and  down, 
Where  the  light  woods  go  seaward  from  the  town  ; 
While  happy  faces,  striking  through  the  green 
Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  turn  are  seen ; 
And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 
Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  scattery  light, 
Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wish'd-for  day, 
And  chase  the  whistling  brine,  and  swirl  into  the 
bay. 


TO  A  CHILD,  DURING  SICKNESS. 

SLEEP  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy  ; 
And  balmy  rest  about  thee 

Smooths  off  the  day's  annoy. 
I  sit  me  down,  and  think 

Of  all  thy  winning  ways ; 
Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 

That  I  had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillow'd  meekness, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid, 
Thy  heart,  in  pain  and  weakness, 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 
The  little  trembling  hand 

That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears, — 
These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 

Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I've  had,  severe  ones 

I  will  not  think  of  now; 
And  calmly  midst  my  dear  ones, 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow  : 
But  when  thy  fingers  press, 

And  pat  my  stooping  head, 
I  cannot  bear  the  gentleness, — 

The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 

Ah  !  first-born  of  thy  mother, 

When  life  and  hope  were  new  ; 
Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother, 

Thy  sister,  father,  too  : 
My  light  where'er  I  go, 

My  bird  when  prison-bound, — 
My  hand  in  hand  companion, — no, 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say,  «  He  has  departed," — 
"  His  voice, — his  face, — is  gone ;" 

To  feel  impatient-hearted, 
<      Yet  feel  we  must  bear  on : 

Ah,  I  could  not  endure 
To  whisper  of  such  wo, 

Unless  I  felt  this  sleep  ensure 
That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  still  he's  fix'd  and  sleeping ! 

This  silence  too  the  while — 
Its  very  hush  and  creeping 

Seem  whispering  us  a  smile : — 
Something  divine  and  dim 

Seems  going  by  one's  ear, 
Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim, 

Who  say,  "  We've  finish'd  here." 

a 


BRYAN    WALLER    PROCTOR. 


MR.  PROCTOR,  better  known  as  BARRY  CORN- 
WALL, was  born  in  London,  and  educated  at 
Harrow,  where  BYRON  was  among  his  class- 
mates. On  leaving  school  he  entered  the 
office  of  a  solicitor  at  Calne,  in  Wiltshire :  an 
uninteresting  town,  but  celebrated  for  having 
been  at  various  periods  the  residence  of 
BOWLES,  CRABBE,  COLERIDGE,  and  MOORE, 
with  all  of  whom  PROCTOR  became  intimately 
acquainted.  At  the  end  of  four  years,  passed 
in  the  study  of  his  profession,  he  went  to  Lon- 
don, and  was  soon  after  called  to  the  bar. 

Mr.  PROCTOR'S  Dramatic  Scenes — the  work 
in  which  he  first  appeared  as  an  author — were 
published  in  1815.  They  were  succeeded  by 
A  Sicilian  Story,  Marcian  Colonna,  The  Flood 
of  Thessaly,  the  tragedy  of  Mirandola,  and 
several  volumes  of  dramatic  fragments,  songs, 
and  miscellaneous  poems,  which  have  toge- 
ther won  him  a  very  high  position  among  con- 
temporary poets.  CHARLES  LAMB  said  of  his 
Fragments,  that  there  was  not  one  of  them, 
had  he  found  them  among  the  Garrick  Plays 
in  the  British  Museum,  to  which  he  would 
have  refused  a  place  in  his  Dramatic  Speci- 
mens. His  songs  are  among  the  best  in  the 
English  language.  They  are  full  of  tender- 
ness and  enthusiasm ;  and  if  not  as  carefully 
finished  as  they  might  be,  they  flow  musically 
and  naturally  like  the  unstudied  effusions  of 
an  improvisator.  PROCTOR  has  written  besides 
his  poems  several  works  in  prose,  among 
which  are  a  Life  of  Edmund  Kean,  a  Life 
of  Ben  Jonson,  and  An  Essay  upon  the  Genius 
of  Shakspeare. 

N.  P.  WILLIS,  a  warm  admirer  of  the  poet, 
has  given  in  his  Pencillings  by  the  Way  an 
interesting  account  of  his  visit  to  him  in  1838. 
"  With  the  address  he  had  given  me  at  part- 
ing," says  Mr.  WILLIS,  "  I  drove  to  a  large 
house  in  Bedford  square ;  and,  not  accustomed 
to  find  the  children  of  the  muses  waited  on  by 
servants  in  livery,  I  made  up  my  mind,  as  I 
walked  up  the  broad  staircase,  that  I  was 
blundering  upon  some  Mr.  PROCTOR  of  the 
exchange,  whose  respect  for  his  poetical 
namesake,  1  hoped,  would  smooth  my  apology 
for  the  intrusion.  Buried  in  a  deep  morocco 


chair,  in  a  large  library,  notwithstanding,  I 
found  the  poet  himself — choice  old  pictures 
filling  every  nook  between  the  book-shelves, 
tables  covered  with  novels  and  annuals,  rolls 
of  prints,  busts  and  drawings  in  all  the  cor- 
ners; and,  more  important  for  the  nonce,  a 
table  at  the  poet's  elbow,  set  forth  with  as 
sensible  a  breakfast  as  the  most  unpoetical  of 
men  could  desire." 

Mr.  PROCTOR  married  a  daughter  of  BASIL 
MONTAGU,  the  best  of  Lord  BACON'S  editors, 
and  a  friend  and  patron  of  literary  men.  "The 
exquisite  beauty  of  the  Dramatic  Scenes,"  our 
traveller  informs  us,  "  interested  this  lovely 
woman  in  his  favour  before  she  knew  him, 
and  far  from  worldly-wise  as  an  attachment 
so  grounded  would  seem,  I  never  saw  two 
people  with  a  more  habitual  air  of  happiness. 
I  thought  of  his  touching  song, 

'Ilnw  many  surnmors,  love, 
Hast  thou  been  mine?' 

and  looked  at  them  with  an  irrepressible  feel- 
ing of  envy.  A  beautiful  girl  of  eight  or  nine 
years,  the  'golden-tressed  Adelaide,'  delicate, 
gentle,  and  pensive,  as  if  she  was  born  on  the 
lip  of  Castaly,  and  knew  she  was  a  poet's 
child,  completed  the  picture  of  happiness 

"  I  took  my  leave  of  this  true  poet  after  half 
a  day  passed  in  his  company,"  continues  Mr. 
WILLIS,  "with  the  impression  that  he  makes 
upon  every  one — of  a  man  whose  sincerity 
and  kind-heartedness  were  the  most  promi- 
nent traits  in  his  character.  Simple  in  his 
language  and  feelings,  a  fond  father,  an  affec- 
tionate husband,  a  business-man  of  the  closest 
habits  of  industry — one  reads  his  strange  ima- 
ginations, and  high-wrought  and  even  subli- 
mated poetry,  and  is  in  doubt  at  which  most 
to  wonder — the  man  as  he  is,  or  the  poet  as 
we  know  him  in  his  books." 

An  edition  of  Mr.  PROCTOR'S  English 
Songs  and  other  Short  Poems  was  published 
in  London  by  Moxon  in  the  summer  of  1844; 
and  they  have  been  reprinted  in  this  country 
by  Ticknor  and  Company  of  Boston.  I  be- 
lieve no  edition  of  his  dramatic  writings  has 
appeared  in  the  United  States.  The  selections 
in  this  volume  are  from  the  last  English  edition. 


BRYAN    W.    PROCTOR. 


207 


THE  RISING  OF  THE  NORTH. 

HARK — to  the  sound ! 
Without  a  trump,  without  a  drum, 
The  wild-eyed,  hungry  millions  come, 

Along  the  echoing  ground. 

From  cellar  and  cave,  from  street  and  lane, 
Each  from  his  separate  place  of  pain, 

In  a  blackening  stream, 
Come  sick,  and  lame,  and  old,  and  poor, 
And  all  who  can  no  more  endure ; 

Like  a  demon's  dream  ! 

Starved  children  with  their  pauper  sire, 
And  labourers  with  their  fronts  of  fire, 

In  angry  hum, 

And  felons,  hunted  to  their  den, 
And  all  who  shame  the  name  of  men, 

By  millions  come. 

The  good,  the  bad,  come  hand  in  hand, 
Link'd  by  that  law  which  none  withstand ; 

And  at  their  head 

Flaps  no  proud  banner,  flaunting  high, 
But  a  shout — sent  upwards  to  the  sky, 

Of  «  Bread .'— Bread  /" 

That  word  their  ensign — that  the  cause 
Which  bids  them  burst  the  social  laws, 

In  wrath,  in  pain, 
That  the  sole  boon  for  lives  of  toil 
Demand  they  from  their  natural  soil : — 

Oh,  not  in  vain  ! 

One  single  year,  and  some  who  now 
Come  forth,  with  oaths  and  haggard  brow, 

Read  prayer  and  psalm, 
In  quiet  homes  :  their  sole  desire 
Rude  comforts  near  their  cottage  fire, 

And  Sabbath  calm. 

But  hunger  is  an  evil  foe : 

It  striketh  truth  and  virtue  low, 

And  pride  elate : 

Wild  hunger,  stripp'd  of  hope  and  fear ! 
It  doth  not  weigh  ;  it  will  not  hear ; 

It  cannot  wait. 

For  mark  what  comes : — To-night  the  poor 
(All  mad)  will  burst  the  rich  man's  door, 

And  wine  will  run 
In  floods,  and  rafters  blazing  bright 
Will  paint  the  sky  with  crimson  light, 

Fierce  as  the  sun  ; 

And  plate  carved  round  with  quaint  device, 
And  cups  all  gold  will  melt,  like  ice 

In  Indian  heat ! 

And  queenly  silks,  from  foreign  lands, 
Will  bear  the  stamps  of  bloody  hands 

And  trampling  feet : 

And  murder — from  his  hideous  den 
Will  come  abroad  and  talk  to  men, 

Till  creatures  born 

For  good  (whose  hearts  kind  pity  nursed) 
Will  act  the  direst  crimes  they  cursed 

But  y ester-morn. 


So,  wealth  by  want  will  be  o'erthrown, 
And  want  be  strong  and  guilty  grown, 

Swollen  out  by  blood. 
Sweet  peace  !  who  sitt'st  aloft,  sedate, 
Who  bind'st  the  little  to  the  great, 
Canst  thou  not  charm  the  serpent  Hate  1 

And  quell  this  feud  1 

Between  the  pomp  of  Croesus'  state, 
And  Irus,  starved  by  sullen  fate — 

'Tween  "thee"  and  "me" — 
'Tween  deadly  frost  and  scorching  sun — 
The  thirty  tyrants  and  the  one — 

Some  space  must  be. 

Must  the  world  quail  to  absolute  kings, 
Or  tyrant  mobs,  those  meaner  things, 

All  nursed  in  gore — 
Turk's  bowstring — Tartar's  vile  ukase — 
Grim  Marat's  bloody  band,  who  pace 

From  shore  to  shore  1 

O  God  ! — since  our  bad  world  began, 
Thus  hath  it  been — from  man  to  man 

War,  to  the  knife  ! 

For  bread — for  gold — for  words — for  air  ! 
Save  us,  O  God  !  and  hear  my  prayer ! 
Save,  save  from  shame — from  crime — despair, 

Man's  puny  life  ! 


STANZAS. 

THAT  was  not  a  barren  time 

When  the  new  world  calmly  lay 

Bare  unto  the  frosty  rime, 
Open  to  the  burning  day. 

Though  her  young  limbs  were  not  clad 
With  the  colours  of  the  spring, 

Yet  she  was  all  inward  glad, 
Knowing  all  she  bore  within, 
Undeveloped,  blossoming. 

There  was  beauty,  such  as  feeds 
Poets  in  their  secret  hours ; 

Music  mute ;  and  all  the  seeds 
And  the  signs  of  all  the  flowers. 

There  was  wealth,  beyond  the  gold 

Hid  in  oriental  caves ; 
There  was — all  we  now  behold 

'Tween  our  cradles  and  our  graves. 

Judge  not,  then,  the  poet's  dreams 
Barren  all,  and  void  of  good : 

There  are  in  them  azure  gleams, 
Wisdom  not  all  understood. 

Fables,  with  a  heart  of  truth  ; 

Mysteries,  that  unfold  in  light; 
Morals,  beautiful  for  youth  ; 

Starry  lessons  for  the  night. 

Unto  man,  in  peace  and  strife, 

True  and  false,  and  weak  and  strong1, 

Unto  a/I,  in  death  and  life, 
Speaks  the  poet  in  his  song. 


203 


BRYAN    W.    PROCTOR. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ADMIRAL. 

How  gallantly,  how  merrily, 

We  ride  along  the  sea ! 
The  morning  is  all  sunshine, 

The  wind  is  blowing  free  : 
The  billows  are  all  sparkling, 

And  bounding  in  the  light, 
Like  creatures  in  whose  sunny  veins 

The  blood  is  running  bright. 
All  nature  knows  our  triumph : 

Strange  birds  about  us  sweep  ; 
Strange  things  come  up  to  look  at  us, 

The  masters  of  the  deep  : 
In  our  wake,  like  any  servant, 

Follows  even  the  bold  shark — 
Oh,  proud  must  be  our  admiral 

Of  such  a  bonny  bark  ! 

Proud,  proud,  must  be  our  admiral, 

(Though  he  is  pale  to-day,) 
Of  twice  five  hundred  iron  men, 

Who  all  his  nod  obey  ; 
Who've  fought  for  him,  and  conquer'd — 

Who've  won,  with  sweat  and  gore, 
Nobility  .'  which  he  shall  have 

Whene'er  he  touch  the  shore. 
Oh  !  would  I  were  our  admiral, 

To  order,  with  a  word — 
To  lose  a  dozen  drops  of  blood, 

And  straight  rise  up  a  lord  ! 
I  'd  shout  e'en  to  yon  shark,  there, 

Who  follows  in  our  lee, 
«  Some  day  I'll  make  thee  carry  me, 

Like  lightning  through  the  sea." 

— The  admiral  grew  paler, 

And  paler  as  we  flew  : 
Still  talk'd  he  to  his  officers, 

And  smiled  upon  his  crew ; 
And  he  look'd  up  at  the  heavens, 

And  he  look'd  down  on  the  sea, 
And  at  last  he  spied  the  creature, 

That  kept  following  in  our  lee. 
He  shook — 'twas  but  an  instant — 

For  speedily  the  pride 
Ran  crimson  to  his  heart, 

Till  all  chances  he  defied  : 
It  threw  boldness  on  his  forehead ; 

Gave  firmness  to  his  breath ; 
And  he  stood  like  some  grim  warrior 

New  risen  up  from  death. 

That  night,  a  horrid  whisper 

Fell  on  us  where  we  lay ; 
And  we  knew  our  old  fine  admiral 

Was  changing  into  clay  ; 
And  we  heard  the  wash  of  waters, 

Though  nothing  could  we  see, 
And  a  whistle  and  a  plunge 

Among  the  billows  in  our  lee  ! 
Till  dawn  we  watch'd  the  body 

In  its  dead  and  ghastly  sleep, 
And  next  evening  at  sunset, 

It  was  slung  into  the  deep ! 


And  never,  from  that  moment — 

Save  one  shudder  through  the  sea, 
Saw  we  (or  heard)  the  shark 
That  had  follow'd  in  our  lee  ! 


FORBIDDEN  LOVE. 

I  LOVE  thee  !     Oh,  the  strife,  the  pain, 

The  fiery  thoughts  that  through  me  roll ! 
I  love  thee  !     Look — again,  again  ! 

O  stars  !  that  thou  couldst  read  my  soul  • 
I  would  thy  bright  bright  eye  could  pierce 

The  crimson  folds  that  hide  my  heart ; 
Then  wouldst  thou  find  the  serpent  fierce 

That  stings  me — and  will  not  depart ! 

Look  love  upon  me,  with  thine  eyes ! 

Yet,  no — men's  evil  tongues  are  nigh  : 
Look  pity,  then,  and  with  thy  sighs 

Waste  music  on  me — till  I  die  ! 
Yet,  love  not !  sigh  not !     Turn  (thou  must} 

Thy  beauty  from  me,  sweet  and  kind ; 
'T  is  fit  that  I  should  burn  to  dust — 

To  death:  because — I  am  not  blind,! 

I  love  thee — and  I  live  !     The  moon 

Who  sees  me  from  her  calm  above, 
The  wind  who  weaves  her  dim  soft  tune 

About  me,  know  how  much  I  love ! 
Naught  else,  save  night  and  the  lonely  hour, 

E'er  heard  my  passion  wild  and  strong ; 
Even  thou  yet  deem'st  not  of  thy  power, 

Unless — thou  readst  aright  my  song ! 


A  REPOSE. 

SHE  sleeps  among  her  pillows  soft, 

(A  dove,  now  wearied  with  her  flight,) 
And  all  around,  and  all  aloft, 

Hang  flutes  and  folds  of  virgin  white : 
Her  hair  out-darkens  the  dark  night, 

Her  glance  outshines  the  starry  sky  ; 
But  now  her  locks  are  hidden  quite, 

And  closed  is  her  fringed  eye  ! 

She  sleepeth  :  wherefore  doth  she  start  ? 

She  sigheth  :  doth  she  feel  no  pain  ? 
None,  none !  the  dream  is  near  her  heart : 

The  spirit  of  sleep  is  in  her  brain. 
He  cometh  down  like  golden  rain, 

Without  a  wish,  without  a  sound  ; 
He  cheers  the  sleeper  (ne'er  in  vain) 
Like  May,  when  earth  is  winter-bound. 

All  day  within  some  cave  he  lies, 

Dethroned  from  his  nightly  sway — 
Far  fading  when  the  dawning  skies 

Our  souls  with  wakening  thoughts  array. 
Two  Spirits  of  might  doth  man  -oh  -y  ; 

By  each  he's  wrought,  from  each  he  learns 
The  one  is  Lord  of  life  by  day  ; 

The  other  when  starry  night  returns. 


BRYAN    W.    PROCTOR. 


209 


A  STORM. 

THE  spirits  of  the  mighty  sea, 

To-night  are  waken'd  from  their  dreams, 
And  upward  to  the  tempest  flee, 

Baring  their  foreheads  where  the  gleams 
Of  lightning  run,  and  thunders  cry, 
Rushing  and  raining  through  the  sky  ! 

The  spirits  of  the  sea  are  waging 
Loud  war  upon  the  peaceful  night, 

And  bands  of  the  black  winds  are  raging 
Through  the  tempest  blue  and  bright ; 

Blowing  her  cloudy  hair  to  dust 

With  kisses,  like  a  madman's  lust ! 

What  ghost  now,  like  an  Ate,  walketh 
Earth — ocean — air  1  and  aye  with  time, 

Mingled,  as  with  a  lover  talketh  ? 
Methinks  their  colloquy  sublime 

Draws  anger  from  the  sky,  which  raves 

Over  the  self-abandon'd  waves  ! 

Behold  !  like  millions  mass'd  in  battle, 
The  trembling  billows  headlong  go, 

Lashing  the  barren  deeps,  which  rattle 
In  mighty  transport  till  they  grow 

All  fruitful  in  their  rocky  home, 

And  burst  from  phrensy  into  foam. 

And  look !  where  on  the  faithless  billows 
Lie  women,  and  men,  and  children  fair ; 

Some  hanging,  like  sleep,  to  their  swollen  pillows, 
With  helpless  sinews  and  streaming  hair, 

And  some  who  plunge  in  the  yawning  graves  ! 

Ah  !  lives  there  no  strength  beyond  the  waves  1 

'Tis  said,  the  moon  can  rock  the  sea 
From  phrensy  strange  to  silence  mild — 

To  sleep — to  death  : — But  where  is  she, 
While  now  her  storm-born  giant  child 

Upheaves  his  shoulder  to  the  skies  1 

Arise,  sweet  planet  pale — arise  ! 

She  cometh — lovelier  than  the  dawn 

In  summer,  when  the  leaves  are  green — 

More  graceful  than  the  alarmed  fawn, 
Over  his  grassy  supper  seen : 

Bright  quiet  from  her  beauty  falls, 

Until — again  the  tempest  calls ! 

The  supernatural  storm — he  waketh 
Again,  and  lo !  from  sheets  all  white, 

Stands  up  unto  the  stars,  and  shaketh 
Scorn  on  the  jewell'd  locks  of  night. 

He  carries  a  ship  on  his  foaming  crown, 

Arid  a  cry,  like  hell,  as  he  rushes  down ! 

And  so  still  soars  from  calm  to  storm, 

The  stature  of  the  unresting  sea : 
So  doth  desire  or  wrath  deform 
Our  else  calm  humanity — 
Until  at  last  we  sleep, 
And  never  wake  nor  weep, 
(Tlush'd  to  death  by  some  faint  tune,) 
In  our  grave  beneath  the  moon ! 
27 


I  DIE  FOR  THY  SWEET  LOVE. 

I  DIE  for  thy  sweet  love  !     The  ground 
Not  panteth  so  for  summer  rain, 

As  I  for  one  soft  look  of  thine  : 
And  yet — I  sigh  in  vain  ! 

A  hundred  men  are  near  thee  now — 
Each  one,  perhaps,  surpassing  me : 

But  who  doth  feel  a  thousandth  part 
Of  what  I  feel  for  thee  1 

They  look  on  thee,  as  men  will  look 

Who  round  the  wild  world  laugh  and  rove : 

/  only  think  how  sweet  'twould  be 
To  die  for  thy  sweet  love  ! 


A  PETITION  TO  TIME. 

TOUCH  us  gently,  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently — as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream  ! 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three — 
(One  is  lost — an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead!) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings  ; 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things, 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
O'er  life's  dim  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ; — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time^ 


A  CHAMBER  SCENE. 

TREAD  softly  through  these  amorous  rooms 
For  every  bough  is  hung  with  life, 
And  kisses  in  harmonious  strife, 

Unloose  their  sharp  and  wing'd  perfumes  ! 

From  Afric,  and  the  Persian  looms, 
The  carpet's  silken  leaves  have  sprung, 
And  heaven,  in  its  blue  bounty,  flung 

These  starry  flowers,  and  azure  blooms. 

Tread  softly  !     By  a  creature  fair 

The  deity  of  love  reposes, 

His  red  lips  open,  like  the  roses 
Which  round  his  hyacinthine  hair 

Hang  in  crimson  coronals ; 

And  passion  fills  the  arched  halls ; 
And  beauty  floats  upon  the  air. 

Tread  softly — softly,  like  the  foot 

Of  Winter,  shod  with  fleecy  snow, 
Who  cometh  white,  and  cold,  and  mute, 

Lest  he  should  wake  the  Spring  below. 
Oh,  look !  for  here  lie  Love  and  Youth, 

Fair  spirits  of  the  heart  and  mind : 
Alas  !  that  one  should  stray  from  truth  ; 

And  one — be  ever,  ever  blind  ! 
s  2 


210 


BRYAN    W.    PROCTOR. 


THE  LAKE  HAS  BURST. 

THE  lake  has  burst !     The  lake  has  burst ! 
Down  through  the  chasms  the  wild  waves  flee , 

They  gallop  along 

With  a  roaring  song, 
Away  to  the  eager  awaiting  sea  ! 

Down  through  the  valleys,  and  over  the  rocks, 
And  over  the  forests  the  flood  runs  free ; 

And  wherever  it  dashes, 

The  oaks  and  the  ashes 
Shrink,  drop,  and  are  borne  to  the  hungry  sea ! 

The  cottage. of  reeds  and  the  tower  of  stone, 
Both  shaken  to  ruin,  at  last  agree  ; 

And  the  slave  and  his  master 

In  one  wide  disaster 
Are  hurried  like  weeds  to  the  scornful  sea ! 

The  sea-beast  he  tosseth  his  foaming  mane  ; 
He  bellows  aloud  to  the  misty  sky, 

And  the  sleep-buried  thunder 

Awakens  in  wonder, 
And  the  lightning  opens  her  piercing  eye ! 

There  is  death  above,  there  is  death  around, 
There  is  death  wheresoever  the  waters  be, 

There  is  nothing  now  doing 

But  terror  and  ruin, 
On  earth,  and  in  air,  and  the  stormy  sea  ! 


THE  WEAVER'S  SONG. 

WEAVE,  brothers,  weave! — Swiftly  throw 

The  shuttle  athwart  the  loom, 
And  show  us  how  brightlv  your  flowers  grow, 

That  have  beauty  but  no  perfume  ! 
Come,  show  us  the  rose,  with  a  hundred  dyes, 

The  lily,  that  hath  no  spot ; 
The  violet,  deep  as  your  true  love's  eyes, 
And  the  little  forget-me-not. 

Sing — sing,  brothers  !  weave  and  sing  ! 
'Tis  good  both  to  sing  and  to  weave  ! 
'T  is  better  to  work  than  live  idle ; 
'Tis  better  to  sing  than  grieve. 

Weave,  brothers,  weave  ! — Weave,  and  bid 

The  colours  of  sunset  glow  ! 
Let  grace  in  each  gliding  thread  be  hid  ! 

Let  beauty  about  ye  blow  ! 
Let  your  skein  be  long,  and  your  silk  be  fine, 

And  your  hands  both  firm  and  sure, 
And  time  nor  chance  shall  your  work  untwine ; 

But  all — like  a  truth — endure. 
So — sing,  brothers,  &c. 

Weave,  brothers,  weave  ! — Toil  is  ours  ; 

But  toil  is  the  lot  of  men  ; 
One  gathers  the  fruit,  one  gathers  the  flowers, 

One  soweth  the  seed  again  ! 
There  is  not  a  creature,  from  England's  king, 

To  the  peasant  that  delves  the  soil, 
That  knows  half  the  pleasures  the  seasons  bring, 

If  he  have  not  his  share  of  toil ! 
So, — sing,  brothers,  &c. 


A  PRAYER  IN  SICKNESS. 


down  thy  winged  angel,  God  ! 
Amid  this  night  so  wild  ; 
And  bid  him  come  where  now  we  watch, 
And  breathe  upon  our  child  ! 

She  lies  upon  her  pillow,  pale, 

And  moans  within  her  sleep, 
Or  wakeneth  with  a  patient  smile, 

And  striveth  not  to  weep. 

How  gentle  and  how  good  a  child 

She  is,  we  know  too  well, 
And  dearer  to  her  parents'  hearts, 

Than  our  weak  words  can  tell. 

We  love—  we  watch  throughout  the  night, 

To  aid,  when  need  may  be  ; 
We  hope.  —  and  have  despair'd,  at  times  ; 

But  now  we  turn  to  Thee  ! 

Send  down  thy  sweet-soul'd  angel,  God  ! 

Amid  the  darkness  wild, 
And  bid  him  soothe  our  souls  to-night, 

And  heal  our  gentle  child  ! 


THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

A  THOUSAND  miles  from  land  are  we, 

Tossing  about  on  the  roaring  sea  ; 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast ; 

The  sails  are  scatter'd  abroad,  like  weeds, 

The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds, 

The  mighty  cables,  and  iron  chains, 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains, 

They  strain  and  they  crack,  and  hearts  like  stone 

Their  natural  hard  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !  Up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's  crown, 

And  amid  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 

The  stormy  Petrel  finds  a  home — 

A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be, 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stormy  wing ! 

O'er  the  deep  !     O'er  the  deep  !  [fish  sleep, 

Where  the  whale,  and  the  shark,  and  the  sword- 
Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  Petrel  telleth  her  tale — in  vain ; 
For  the  manner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Who  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storms  unheard  ! 
Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet,  of  good  or  ill, 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still ; 
Yet  he  ne'er  falters  : — So,  Petrel  !  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing ! 


BRYAN  W.  PROCTOR. 


211 


THE  SEA. 

THE  sea  !  the  sea !  the  open  sea  ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  region's  round ; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds ;  it  mocks  the  skies ; 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I  'm  on  the  sea  !    I  'm  on  the  sea  ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be, 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go  : 

If  a  storm  should  come,  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter  1     I  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  oh  !  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou'west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull  tame  shore, 
But  I  loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest ; 
And  a  mother  she  was  and  is  to  me, 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  roll'd, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold  ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean  child ! 

I've  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers  a  sailor's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought,  nor  sigh'd  for  change  ; 
And  death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild  unbounded  sea  ! 


SOFTLY   WOO  AWAY  HER  BREATH. 

SOFTLY  woo  away  her  breath, 

Gentle  Death ! 
Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 

Tender  mournful,  murmuring  Life  ! 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day ; 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom  ; 
Now  she  pales  an^  shrinks  away, 

Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom. 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear ! 
Bear  her  perfect  soul  above, 

Seraph  of  the  skies — sweet  Love  ! 
Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth, 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 
And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth; 

Take  her,  then,  for  evermore — 

For  ever — evermore  ! 


A  DEEP  AND  A  MIGHTY  SHADOW. 

A  DEEP  and  a  mighty  shadow 

Across  my  heart  is  thrown, 
Like  a  cloud  on  a  summer  meadow 

Where  the  thunder-wind  hath  blown  ! 
The  wild-rose,  Fancy,  dieth, 
The  sweet  bird,  Memory,  flieth, 

And  leaveth  me  alone — 

Alone  with  my  hopeless  sorrow: 

No  other  mate  I  know  ! 
I  strive  to  awake  to-morrow ; 

But  the  dull  words  will  not  flow  ! 
I  pray — but  my  prayers  are  driven 
Aside,  by  the  angry  heaven, 

And  weigh  me  down  with  wo ! 

I  call  on  the  past,  to  lend  me 

Its  songs,  to  soothe  rny  pain  : 
I  bid  the  dim  future  send  me 

A  light  from  its  eyes — in  vain  ! 
Naught  comes ;  but  a  shrill  cry  starteth 
From  Hope,  as  she  fast  departeth : — 

"  I  go,  and  come  not  again  !" 


THE   QUADROON. 

SAT  they  that  all  beauty  lies 

In  the  paler  maiden's  hue  1 
Say  they  that  all  softness  flies, 

Save  from  the  eyes  of  April  blue  ] 
Arise  thou,  like  a  night  in  June, 
Beautiful  Quadroon  ! 

Come — all  dark  and  bright,  as  skies 
With  the  tender  starlight  hung  f 

Loose  the  love  from  out  thine  eyes  ! 
Loose  the  angel  from  thy  tongue  ! 

Let  them  hear  heaven's  own  sweet  tune, 
Beautiful  Quadroon  ! 

Tell  them — Beauty  (born  above) 

From  no  shade  nor  hue  doth  fly  ; 
All  she  asks  is  mind,  is  love, 

And  both  upon  thine  aspect  lie- 
Like  the  light  upon  the  moon, 

Beautiful  Quadroon ! 


AN  EPITAPH. 

HE  died,  and  left  the  world  behind ! 

His  once  wild  heart  is  cold  ! 
His  once  keen  eye  is  quell'd  and  blind! 

What  more  ? — His  tale  is  told. 

He  came,  and,  baring  his  heaven-bright  thought, 

He  earn'd  the  base  world's  ban  : 
And — having  vainly  lived  and  taught, 

Gave  place  to  a  meaner  ii?an ! 


212 


BRYAN    W.    PROCTOR. 


TO  THE  SOUTH  WIND. 

O  SWEKT  South  Wind! 

Long  hast  thou  linger'd  midst  those  islands  fair, 
Which  lie,  enchanted,  on  the  Indian  deep, 
Like  sea-maids  all  asleep, 
Charm'd  by  the  cloudless  sun  and  azure  air! 
O  sweetest  southern  wind  ! 
Pause  here  awhile,  and  gently  now  unbind 
Thy  dark  rose-crowned  hair  ! 

Wilt  thou  not  unloose  now, 

In  this,  the  bluest  of  all  hours, 

Thy  passion-colour'd  flowers  ? 

Rest ;  and  let  fall  the  fragrance  from  thy  brow 

On  Beauty's  parted  lips  and  closed  eyes, 

And  on  her  cheeks,  which  crimson-liked  the  skies; 

And  slumber  on  her  bosom,  white  as  snow, 

Whilst  starry  midnight  flies  ! 

We,  whom  the  northern  blast 

Blows  on,  from  night  till  morn,  from  morn  to  eve, 

Hearing  thee,  sometimes  grieve 

That  our  poor  summer's  day  not  long  may  last: 

And  yet,  perhaps,  'twere  well 

We  should  not  ever  dwell 

With  thee,  sweet  spirit  of  the  sunny  south ; 

But  touch  thy  odorous  mouth 

Once,  and  be  gone  unto  our  blasts  again, 

And  their  bleak  welcome,  and  our  wintry  snow  ; 

And  arm  us  (by  enduring)  for  that  pain 

Which  the  bad  world  sends  forth,  and  all  its  wo ! 


MUSIC. 

I  SKE  small  difference 

'Twixt  one  sound  and  its  next.     All  seem  akin 
And  run  on  the  same  feet,  ever. 

Peace  !  Thou  want'st 

One  heavenly  sense,  and  speak'st  in  ignorance. 
Seest  thou  no  differing  shadows  which  divide 
The  rose  and  poppy  ?   'Tis  the  same  with  sounds. 
There's  not  a  minute  in  the  round  of  time     [space 
But's  hinged  with  different  music.     In  that  small 
Between  the  thought  and  its  swift  utterance — 
Ere  silence  buds  to  sound — the  angels,  listening, 
Hear  infinite  varieties  of  song  ! 
And  they  who  turn  the  lightning-rapid  spheres 
Have  flown  an  evening's  journey. 


FLOWERS. 

WE  have  left  behind  us 
The  riches  of  the  meadows,  and  now  come 
To  visit  the  virgin  primrose  where  she  dwells, 
Midst  harebells  and  the  wild-wood  hyacinths. 
'Tis  there  she  keeps  her  court.    Dost  see  yon  bank 
The  sun  is  kissing  1   Near — go  near!  for  there, 
('Neath  those  broad  leaves,  amidst  yon  straggling 
Immaculate  odours  from  the  violet  [grasses,) 

Spring  up  for  ever:  Like  sweet  thoughts  that  come 
Wing'd  from  the  maiden  fancy,  and  fly  off 
In  music  to  the  skies,  and  there  are  lost, 
These  ever-steaming  odours  seek  the  sun 
And  fade  in  the  light  he  scatters. 


REMEMBERED  LOVE. 

OH  power  of  love!  so  fearful  and  so  fair — 
Life  of  our  life  on  earth,  yet  kin  to  care — 
Oh  !   thou  day-dreaming  spirit  who  dost  look 
Upon  the  future  as  the  charmed  book 
Of  Fate  were  open'd  to  thine  eyes  alone — 
Thou  who  dost  cull,  from  moments  stolen  and  gone 
Into  eternity,  memorial  things, 
To  deck  the  days  to  come — thy  revelings 
Were  glorious  and  beyond  all  others.     Thou 
Didst  banquet  upon  beauty  once;  and  now 
The  ambrosial  feast  is  ended  !     Let  it  be 


Enough  to  say  "  It 


Oh  !  upon  me, 


From  thy  o'ershadowing  wings  ethereal, 
Shake  odorous  airs,  so  may  my  senses  all 
Be  spell-bound  to  thy  service,  beautiful  power, 
And  on  the  breath  of  every  coming  hour 
Send  me  faint  tidings  of  the  things  that  were. 

KINGS. 

METHIXKS 

There's  something  lonely  in  the  state  of  kings ! 
None  dare  come  near  them.     As  the  eagle,  poised 
Upon  his  sightless  throne  in  upper  air, 
Scares  gentle  birds  away,  so  kings  (cut  off 
From  human  kindred  by  the  curse  of  power) 
Are  shunn'd  and  live  alone.     Who  dare  come  near 
The  region  of  a  king  ]     There  is  a  wall 
(Invisible,  indeed,  yet  strong  and  high) 
Which  fences  kings  from  close  approach  of  men. 
They  live  respected — oh,  that  chest  "  respect !" 
As  if  the  homage  that  abases  others 
Could  comfort  him  that  has't.     Alone — alone  ! 
Prison'd  in  ermine  and  a  velvet  chair — 
Shut  out  from  hope,  (the  height  being  all  attain'd,) 
Yet  touch'd  by  terrors — what  can  soothe  a  king ! 


NIGHT  THOUGHTS. 

'Tis  night — still  night !    The  murmuring  world 

lies  still ! 

All  things  which  are  lie  still  and  whisper  not; 
The  owl,  the  bat,  the  clock  which  strikes  the  hour 
And  summons  forgetful  man  to  think  of  heaven, 
The  midnight  cricket  on  the  ashy  hearth, 
Are  quiet,  dumb!  Hope,  Fear,  lie  drown'd  in  dreams; 
And  conscience,  calmer  than  a  baby's  breath, 
Murders  the  heart  no  more.  Who  goes?  'Tis  naught, 
Save  the  bird  echo,  who  comes  back  to  me 
Afraid  o'  the  silence.     Love  !  art  thou  asleep  1 
Rose  o'  the  night,  on  whom  the  soft  dew  lies, 
Here  come  I,  sweet,  mocking  the  nightingale, 
To  sing  of  endless  love,  pa^ipnate  pain, 
And  wishes  that  know  no  rest ! 


HAPPINESS. 

A  >TO;NTH  ago  I  was  happy !     No, 
Not  happy,  yet  encircled  by  deep  joy, 
Which,  though  'twas  all  around,  I  could  not  touch. 
But  it  was  ever 'thus  with  Happiness: 
It  is  the  gay  to-morrow  of  the  mind 
That  never  comes. 


BRYAN    Mr.    PROCTOR. 


213 


TO  THE  SINGER  PASTA. 

NEVER  till  now — never  till  now,  O  Queen 

And  wonder  of  the  enchanted  world  of  sound  ! 
[|    Never  till  now  was  such  bright  creature  seen, 
Startling  to  transport  all  the  regions  round  ! 
Whence  comest  thou — with  those  eyes  and  that 

fine  mien, 

Thou  sweet,  sweet  singer  1  Like  an  angel  found 
Mourning  alone,  thou  seem'st  (thy  mates  all  fled) 
A  star  'mong  clouds — a  spirit  mid  the  dead. 

Melodious  thoughts  hang  round  thee !     Sorrow 

sings 

Perpetual  sweetness  near — divine  despair  ! 
Thou  speak'st — and  music,   with   her    thousand 

strings, 

Gives  golden  answers  from  the  haunted  air  ! 
Thou  movest — and  round  thee  grace  her  beauty 

flings  ! 

Thou  look'st — and  love  is  born!  0  songstress  rare! 
Lives  there  on  earth  a  power  like  that  which  lies 
In  those  resistless  tones — in  those  dark  eyes  1 

Oh,  I   have   lived — how  long ! — with  one  deep 
treasure, 

One  fountain  of  delight  unlock'd,  unknown  ; 
But  tkou,  the  prophetess  of  my  new  pleasure, 

Hast  come  at  last,  and  struck  my  heart  of  stone ; 
And  now  outgushes,  without  stint  or  measure, 

The  endless  rapture — and  in  places  lone 
I  shout  it  to  the  stars  and  winds  that  flee, 
And  then  I  think  on  all  I  owe  to  thee ! 

I  see  thee  at  all  hours — beneath  all  skies — 

In  every  shape  thou  takest,  or  passionate  path  : 

Now  art  thou  like  some  wing'd  thing  that  cries 
Over  a  city  flaming  fast  to  death  ; 

Now,  in  thy  voice,  the  mad  Medea  dies: 

Now  Desdemona  yields  her  gentle  breath  : — 

All  things  thou  art  by  turns — from  wrath  to  love ; 

From  the  queen  eagle  to  the  vestal  dove ! 

Horror  is  stern  and  strong,  and  death  (unmask'd 
In  slow  pale  silence,  or  mid  brief  eclipse)  ; 

But  what  are  they  to  thy  sweet  strength,  whentask'd 
To  its  height — with  all  the  God  upon  thy  lips'? 

Not  even  the  cloudless  days  and  riches,  asked 
By  one  who  in  the  book  of  darkness  dips, 

Vies  with  that  radiant  wealth  which  they  inherit 

Who  own,  like  thee,  the  Muse's  deathless  spirit. 

Would  I  could  crown  thee  as  a  king  can  crown ! 

Yet,  what  are  kingly  gifts  to  thy  fair  fame, 
Whose  echoes  shall  all  vulgar  triumphs  drown — 

Whose  light  shall  darken  every  meaner  name  1 
The  gallant  courts  thee  for  his  own  renown  ; 

Mimicking  thee,  he  plays  love's  pleasant  game  : 
The  critic  brings  thee  praise,  which  all  rehearse ; 
And  I — alas  ! — I  can  but  bring  my  verse  ! 


ADDRESS  TO   THE  OCEAN. 

OH  thou  vast  Ocean  !  ever  sounding  sea! 
Thou  symbol  of  a  dread  immensity  ! 
Thou  thing  that  windest  round  the  solid  world 
Like  a  huge  animal,  which  downward  hurl'd 
From  the  black  clouds,  lies  weltering  and  alone, 
Lashing  and  writhing  till  its  strength  be  gone. 
Thy  voice  is  like  the  thunder,  and  thy  sleep 
Is  as  a  giant's  slumber,  loud  and  deep. 
Thou  speakest  in  the  east  and  in  the  west 
At  once,  and  on  thy  heavily  laden  breast 
Fleets  come  and  go,  and  shapes  that  have  no  life 
Or  motion  yet  are  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 
The  earth  hath  naught  of   this:    no  chance  or 

change 

Ruffles  its  surface,  and  no  spirits  dare 
Give  answer  to  the  tempest-waken  air ; 
But  o'er  its  wastes  the  weakly  tenants  range 
At  will,  and  wound  its  bosom  as  they  go: 
Ever  the  same,  it  hath  no  ebb,  no  flow ; 
But  to  their  stated  rounds  the  seasons  come, 
And  pass  like  visions  to  their  viewless  home, 
And  come  again,  and  vanish :  the  young  spring 
Looks  ever  bright  with  leaves  and  blossoming, 
And  winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn, 
When  the  wild  autumn  with  a  look  forlorn 
Dies  in  his  stormy  manhood ;  and  the  skies 
Weep,  and  flowers  sicken  when  the  summer 

flies. 

— Thou  only,  terrible  Ocean,  hast  a  power, 
A  will,  a  voice,  and  in  thy  wrathful  hour, 
When  thou  dost  lift  thine  anger  to  the  clouds, 
A  fearful  and  magnificent  beauty  shrouds 
Thy  broad  green  forehead.    If  thy  waves  be  driven 
Backwards  and  forwards  by  the  shifting  wind, 
How  quickly  dost  thou  thy  great  strength  unbind, 
And  stretch  thine  arms,  and  war  at   once  with 

heaven. 

Thou  trackless  and  immeasurable  main  ! 
On  thee  no  record  ever  lived  again 
To  meet  the  hand  that  writ  it :  line  nor  lead 
Hath  ever  fathom'd  thy  profoundest  deeps, 
Where  haply   the   huge   monster  swells  and 

sleeps, 

King  of  his  watery  limit,  who,  'tis  said, 
Can  move  the  mighty  ocean  into  storm — 
Oh  !   wonderful  thou  art,  great  element : 
And  fearful  in  thy  spleeny  humours  bent, 
And  lovely  in  repose  :  thy  summer  form 
Is  beautiful,  and  when  thy  silver  waves 
Make  music  in  earth's  dark  and  winding  caves, 
I  love  to  wander  on  thy  pebbled  beach, 
Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour, 
And  hearken  to  the  thoughts  thy  waters  teach — 
"  Eternity,  eternity,  and  power." 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


FEW  writers  of  verses  have  been  more  over- 
rated than  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE,  and  it  is  a 
shame,  that  while  there  has  never  appeared  in 
this  country  a  single  edition  of  the  poetical 
writings  of  LANDOR,  KENYON,  MILNES,  Miss 
BARRETT,  and  others  of  similar  merit,  there 
have  been  more  impressions  of  WHITE  than 
there  have  been  of  MILTON,  or  POPE,  or  COLE- 
RIDGE. 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE  was  born  in  Notting- 
ham, on  the  twenty-first  of  March,  1785.  He 
was  deemed  a  dull  boy  at  school,  where  at  the 
early  age  of  eleven  he  began  to  write  verses 
to  satirize  his  teacher,  for  supposed  injuries. 
He  was  in  his  fifteenth  year  articled  to  an 
attorney,  in  his  native  town,  and  while  in 
his  office  acquired  by  diligent  application  a 
knowledge  of  the  Greek,  Spanish,  Portu- 
guese and  Italian  languages.  An  unfortunate 
deafness  induced  him  to  abandon  the  study  of 
the  law,  and  he  published  a  small  volume  of 
poems  with  the  expectation  that  the  profits 
would  enable  him  to  enter  one  of  the  univer- 


THE  SAVOYARD'S  RETURN. 

OH  !  yonder  is  the  well-known  spot, 

My  dear,  my  long-lost  native  home  ! 
Oh  !  welcome  is  yon  little  cot, 

Where  I  shall  rest,  no  more  to  roam  ! 
Oh  !  I  have  travell'd  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land  ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband  : 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 

Of  distant  climes  the  false  report 

Allured  me  from  my  native  land  ; 
It  bade  me  rove — my  sole  support 

My  cymbals  and  my  saraband. 
The  woody  dell,  the  hanging  rock, 

The  chamois  skipping  o'er  the  heights ; 
The  plain  adorn'd  with  many  a  flock, 

And,  oh !  a  thousand  more  delights, 
That  graced  yon  dear  beloved  retreat, 
Have  backward  won  my  weary  feet. 

Now  safe  return'd.  with  wandering  tired, 
No  more  my  little  home  I  Ml  leave  ; 

And  many  a  tale  of  what  I  've  seen 
Shall  while  away  the  winter's  eve. 


sities.  In  this  he  was  disappointed ;  but 
several  gentlemen  stepped  forward  and  became 
his  patrons,  and  he  entered  St.  John's  College, 
at  Cambridge,  where  he  soon  obtained  a  high 
reputation  among  his  classmates  for  scholar- 
ship and  for  his  personal  virtues.  His  health 
was  quickly  impaired  by  his  constant  and 
earnest  devotion  to  study,  and  he  died  on  the 
nineteenth  of  October,  1806,  in  the  twenty- 
first  year  of  his  age. 

His  poetical  writings  were  collected  soon 
after  his  death,  and  published  with  an  ele- 
gant memoir  by  Dr.  SOUTHEY.  The  admira- 
tion which  they  excited  is  said  to  have  been 
almost  unexampled.  But  a  more  correct  esti- 
mate of  his  abilties  now  obtains.  He  was 
scarcely  equal  to  the  DAVIDSONS  of  New  York, 
and  it  would  be  almost  as  absurd  to  compare 
him  with  KEATS  or  CHATTERTON  as  to  com- 
pare ROBERT  MONTGOMERY  with  MILTON.  I 
doubt  whether  if  he  had  lived  to  the  rnaturest 
age,  he  would  have  produced  any  thing  in 
poetry  above  elegant  mediocrity. 


Oh !  I  have  wander'd  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land  ;      ^ 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have*  tried, 
And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband  ; 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail, 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 


CANZONET. 


!  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee, 
Cold  the  rain  beats  on  thy  breast  : 
Why  should  horror's  voice  astound  thee, 
Death  can  bid  the  wretched  rest  ! 
All  under  the  tree 
Thy  bed  may  be, 
And  thou  mayst  slumber  peacefully. 

Maiden  !  once  gay  Pleasure  knew  thee  ; 

Now  thy  cheeks  are  pale  and  deep  : 
Love  has  been  a  felon  to  thee, 
Yet,  poor  maiden,  do  not  weep  : 
There  's  rest  for  thee 
All  under  the  tree, 
Where  thou  wilt  sleep  most  peacefully. 

"  214 


574 


HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


215 


I  AM  PLEASED,  AND  YET  I'M  SAD. 

WHEIT  twilight  steals  along  the  ground, 
And  all  the  bells  are  ringing  round, 

One,  two,  three,  four,  and  five, 
I  at  my  study  window  sit", 
And,  rapt  in  many  a  musing  fit, 

To  bliss  am  all  alive. 

But  though  impressions  calm  and  sweet 
Thrill  round  my  heart  a  holy  heat, 

And  I  am  inly  glad, 
The  tear-drop  stands  in  either  eye, 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  thee  why, 

I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I  'in  sad. 

The  silvery  rack  that  flies  away 
Like  mortal  life  or  pleasure's  ray, 

Does  that  disturb  my  breast  1 
Nay,  what  have  I,  a  studious  man, 
To  do  with  life's  unstable  plain, 

Or  pleasure's  fading  vest  ? 

Is  it  that  here  I  must  not  stop, 
But  o'er  yon  blue  hill's  woody  top, 

Must  bend  my  lonely  way  1 
No,  surely  no !  for  give  but  me 
My  own  fire-side,  and  I  shall  be 

At  home  where'er  I  stray. 

Then  is  it  that  yon  steeple  there, 
With  music  sweet  shall  fill  the  air, 

When  thou  no  more  canst  hear  ? 
Oh,  no  !   oh,  no  !   for  then  forgiven 
I  shall  be  with  my  God  in  heaven, 

Released  from  every  fear. 

Then  whence  it  is  I  cannot  tell, 
But  there  is  some  mysterious  spell 

That  holds  me  when  I  'm  glad  ; 
And  so  the  tear-drop  fills  my  eye, 
When  yet  in  truth  I  know  not  why, 

Or  wherefore,  I  am  sad. 


TO  CONSUMPTION. 

GKVTT,T,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head, 
Consumption,  lay  thine  hand  ! — let  me  decay, 
I/ike  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away, 

And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 

And  if 'tis  true,  what  holy  men  have  said, 
That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 
Of  death  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey, 

O  let  the  aerial  music  round  my  bed, 

Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony, 

Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear! 

That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good-by 
Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear : 

And,  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past, 

Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


WHEN  marshall'd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky  ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

Hark  !   hark  !   to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem  : 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud — the  night  was  dark, 
The  ocean  yawn'd — and  rudely  blow'd 

The  wind  that  toss'd  my  foundering  bark. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem  ; 

When  suddenly  a  star  arose, — 
It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 
It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall, 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moor'd — my  perils  o'er, 
I  '11  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

For  ever  and  for  evermore 

The  Star !— The  Star  of  Bethlehem  ! 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

MILD  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 

And  cradled  in  the  winds; 

Thee,  when  young  spring  first  question'd  winter's 

sway, 
And  da.ed  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity:  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head, 

Obscure  and  unobserved. 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


LORD    BYRON. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  was  born  in  Lon- 
don on  the  twenty-second  of  January,  1788. 
His  father,  who  was  a  man  of  dissolute  habits, 
quitted  England  in  the  following  year,  and 
soon  afterward  his  mother  retired  to  Aberdeen, 
where  at  an  early  age  he  was  placed  at  a 
grammar  school,  in  which  he  remained  until 
the  death  of  his  great  uncle,  the  sixth  Lord 
BYRON,  when  (his  father  having  previously 
died  in  France)  he  succeeded  to  the  family 
title  and  estates,  and  removed  to  Newstead 
Abbey.  Soon  after  this  he  was  placed  under 
the  guardianship  of  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  by 
whom  he  was  sent  to  Harrow,  where  he  re- 
mained about  four  years.  He  is  described  by 
Dr.  DRURY,  the  head  master  here,  as  having 
been  sensitive  and  diffident,  and  not  easily  go- 
verned except  by  gentle  means.  He  did  not 
excel  in  scholarship,  but  none  of  his  school  fel- 
lows, among  whom  were  the  present  Sir  ROBERT 
PEEL,  Mr.  PROCTOR,  and  others  who  have  since 
been  distinguished,  were  equal  to  him  in  gene- 
ral information.  In  his  seventeenth  year  he 
was  transferred  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
His  general  characteristics  were  still  the  same 
as  at  Harrow.  He  cared  nothing  for  the  ho- 
nours of  the  university,  and  its  discipline  was 
not  of  a  nature  rightly  to  influence  his  conduct. 

On  leaving  Cambridge  BYRON  resumed  his 
residence  at  Newstead  Abbey,  a  place  rich  in 
legendary  associations,  and  situated  in  one  of 
the  most  romantic  districts  of  the  country.  He 
now  published  The  Hours  of  Idleness,  a  col- 
lection of  verses  written  during  his  college 
life,  and  remembered  at  this  day  chiefly  on 
account  of  the  severe  criticism  they  received 
in  the  Edinburgh  Review,*  which  lashed  the 
dormant  energies  of  the  poet  into  action,  and 
led  to  the  composition  of  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers,  a  satire  in  which  he  took 
ample  vengeance  not  only  upon  his  critics  but 
upon  nearly  all  the  literary  men  of  the  day 
who  were  more  fortunate  than  himself. 

A  circumstance  occurred  about  this  time 
which  had  a  powerful  influence  upon  BYRON'S 
future  character.  MARY  CHA WORTH  was  pro- 

*This  celebrated  article;  was  written  hy  Lord  Brougham. 
216 


bably  the  only  Englishwoman  whom  he  ever 
loved.  He  had  become  acquainted  with  her 
soon  after  his  removal  from  Scotland,  and  had 
never  wholly  abandoned  the  hope  that  his 
affection  would  be  returned,  until  now,  when 
he  underwent  the  trial  of  seeing  her  married  to 
another.  She  is  the  heroine  of  The  Dream, 
and  is  alluded  to  in  many  of  his  sweetest 
verses,  written  in  subsequent  years. 

Immediately  after  the  publication  of  Eng- 
lish Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  the  noble 
author  took  his  seat  the  first  lime  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  He  entered  upon  public  life 
under  peculiar  and  adverse  circumstances.  He 
was  unknown  in  society,  and  there  was  no 
peer  to  present  him  in  parliament.  The  lone- 
liness of  his  position  destroyed  an  incipient 
ambition  of  political  eminence,  and  deepened 
the  gloom  and  misanthropy  which  had  been 
caused  by  earlier  disappointments.  He  sud- 
denly determined  to  travel,  and  leaving  Lon- 
don with  Mr.  JOHN  CAM  HOBHOUSE,  in  July, 
1809,  he  passed  two  years  in  Portugal,  Spain, 
Greece,  Turkey  and  Asia  Minor.  Approach- 
ing England  in  the  summer  of  1811,  he  wrote 
to  a  friend,  "Embarrassed  in  my  private,  and 
indifferent  to  public  affairs;  solitary,  without 
the  wish  to  be  social ;  with  a  body  enfeebled 
by  a  succession  of  fevers,  but  a  spirit  and 
heart  yet  unbroken,  I  am  returning  home,  with- 
out a  hope,  and  almost  without  a  desire.*'  Be- 
fore he  reached  Newstead  his  melancholy  was 
increased  by  intelligence  of  the  death  of  his 
mother,  and  within  a  few  weeks  he  lost  five 
more  of  his  nearest  friends  and  relations. 

This  depression  gradually  wore  away.  He 
employed  himself  in  revising  the  poems  he 
had  written  while  abroad,  and  in  March,  1812, 
when  the  author  was  but  twenty-four  years 
of  age,  England  was  electrified  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  first  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold. 
Alluding  to  the  applause  bestowed  upon  this 
work,  he  says  tersely  in  his  diary,  "  I  awoke 
one  morning  and  found  myself  famous."  He 
became  at  once  the  idol  of  society.  A  few 
days  before,  he  had  made  his  first  speech 
in  parliament.  It  was  praised  by  SHERIDAN, 


LORD    BYRON. 


217 


and  other  eminent  men,  and  its  success  might 
have  incited  him  to  seek  political  distinction, 
but  for  his  far  greater  success  as  a  poet,  which 
immediately  determined  his  subsequent  career. 
Childe  Harold  was  followed  by  The  Giaour, 
The  Bride  of  Abydos,  The'Corsair,  Lara,  and 
The  Siege  of  Corinth,  in  quick  succession, 
and  each  added  to  his  gigantic  reputation. 

In  January,  1815,  Lord  BYRON  was  married 
to  a  daughter  of  Sir  RALPH  MILBANKE.  The 
union,  it  is  well  known,  was  not  productive 
of  happiness,  and  in  the  following  year,  after 
Lady  BYRON  had  given  birth  to  a  daughter,*  a 
separation  took  place.  The  public,  with  its  cus- 
tomary impertinence,  interfered,  and  it  chose  to 
side  with  the  lady.  Lord  BYRON  was  libelled, 
persecuted,  and  driven  from  society.  No  man 
was  ever  more  grievously  wronged.  As  Mr. 
MACAULAY  well  observes,  first  came  the  ex- 
ecution, then  the  investigation,  and,  last  of  all, 
the  accusation.  There  was  a  quarrel,  but  there 
has  never  been  any  thing  proved,  or  even  alleged, 
to  show  that  BYRON  was  more  to  blame  than  any 
other  man  who  is  on  bad  terms  with  his  wife. 
He  again  quitted  I]ngland  for  the  continent, 
and  with  a  determination  never  to  return.  Re- 
suming his  pen,  he  produced  in  the  three  suc- 
ceeding years  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon,  Man- 
fred, The  Lament  of  Tasso,  Beppo,  the  last 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  and  many  shorter 
poems,  which  were  received  with  almost  uni- 
versal applause. 

He  fixed  his  home*  in  Venice,  and  there 
abandoned  himself  to  every  kind  of  pleasure. 
Under  the  influence  of  excesses  his  health  de- 
cayed, and  his  hair  turned  gray.  His  mind, 
too,  suffered  sensible  injury.  Don  Juan  and 
some  of  his  dramatic  pieces  contain  many 
passages  which  only  BYRON  could  have  writ- 
ten, but  his  verse  lost  the  energy  for  which  it 
had  been  distinguished,  and  with  his  remark- 
able command  of  language  passed  away  much 
of  that  delicate  perception  of  the  beautiful, 
which  more  than  any  thing  else  constitutes 
the  poetical  faculty. 

Among  BYRON'S  companions  in  Italy  were 
SHELLEY  and  LEIGH  HUNT,  associated  with 
whom  he  established  a  periodical  paper  called 
The  Liberal;  but  after  the  publication  of  a 
few  numbers,  the  plan  was  relinquished.  The 
dead  body  of  his  friend  SHELLEY  he  assisted 
in  burning  by  the  bay  of  Spezia;  HUNT,  with 
whom  he  had  quarrelled,  returned  to  England, 

,*  ADA  BYRON,  now  Countess  of  Lovelace. 

28 


and  he  directed  his  own  eyes  toward  Greece, 
in  contemplation  of  the  last  and  noblest  effort 
of  his  life.  Sated  with  literary  fame,  weary 
of  inaction,  and  thirsting  for  honourable  dis- 
tinction in  a  new  field,  he  entered  the  Grecian 
camp,  where  his  reception  was  like  that  of 
Lafayette  in  America,  though  more  enthusias- 
tic, more  triumphant.  Had  he  lived,  he  might 
have  become  eminent  as  a  soldier  and  states- 
man; but  anxiety,  action  and  exposure  in- 
duced disease,  and  on  the  nineteenth  of  March, 
1824,  seven  months  after  his  arrival  in  Cepha- 
lonia,  he  died  at  Missolonghi,  in  the  thirty- 
seventh  year  of  his  age. 

The  admirable  criticisms  of  MACAULAY  and 
other  late  writers  have  placed  BYRON  in  a 
more  just  position  than  could  have  been  an- 
ticipated from  the  vague  and  partisan  views 
that  so  long  obtained  respecting  him.  The 
world  is  fast  learning  to  discriminate  between 
his  genius  and  character.  The  fervour  of  his 
poetry  no  longer  blinds  men  to  the  fallacy  of 
his  moral  code,  nor  is  his  life  judged  as  for- 
merly with  heartless  and  intolerant  severity. 
He  had  very  many  noble  qualities ;  he  was 
alive  to  tender  and  generous  feelings,  and  per- 
formed numerous  acts  of  disinterested  libe- 
rality. His  amours  are  the  subject  of  the  most 
melancholy  chapter  in  his  life,  but  they  were 
less  numerous  and  less  dishonourable  than 
has  been  supposed.  His  liaison  with  Madame 
GUICCIOLA,  though  by  the  standard  of  morality 
established  on  the  shores  of  the  Adriatic  it 
might  be  called  virtuous,  was  criminal ;  yet  it  is 
not  to  be  visited  with  the  censure  which  such  a 
connection  would  deserve  in  England.  In  BY- 
RON'S early  history,  his  unhappy  education,  his 
severe  trials,  and  the  capricious  treatment  he 
received  from  society,  there  is  much  to  explain 
and  to  palliate  his  conduct.  He  knew  the  world, 
and  his  judgment  of  it  was  not  very  erroneous. 
He  was  indeed  what  almost  any  man  of  genius, 
exposed  to  such  vicissitudes,  might  be  expected 
to  be,  unless  guided  and  restrained  by  religious 
principle.  His  writings  present  a  variety  of 
states  of  mind  and  conditions  of  feeling,  and 
critics  have  pointed  out  in  them  what  is  respect- 
ively the  offspring  of  blind  passion  and  genuine 
sentiment.  The  descriptive  portions  of  Childe 
Harold,  the  versification  of  the  Corsair,  and  the 
pure  melancholy  of  some  of  his  occasional 
effusions,  will  always  be  warmly  admired  by 
many  who  can  never  sympathize  with  the 
misanthropic  overflowings  of  a  sceptical  mind. 
T 


218 


LORD    BYRON. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  TASSO. 


years  !  —  it  tries  the  thrilling  frame  to  bear 
And  eagle-spirit  of  a  Child  of  Song  — 
Long  years  of  outrage,  calumny,  and  wrong; 
Imputed  madness,  prison'd  solitude, 
And  the  mind's  canker  in  its  savage  mood, 
When  the  impatient  thirst  of  light  and  air 
Parches  the  heart  ;  and  the  abhorred  grate, 
Marring  the  sunbeams  with  its  hideous  shade, 
Works  through  the  throbbing  eyeball  to  the  brain 
With  a  hot  sense  of  heaviness  and  pain  ; 
And  bare,  at  once,  Captivity  display  'd 
Stands  scoffing  through  the  never-open'd  gate, 
Which  nothing  through  its  bars  admits,  save  day 
And  tasteless  food,  which  I  have  eat  alone 
Till  its  unsocial  bitterness  is  gone; 
And  I  can  banquet  like  a  beast  of  prey, 
Sullen  and  lonely,  couching  in  the  cave 
Which  is  my  lair,  and  —  it  may  be  —  my  grave. 
All  this  hath  somewhat  worn  me,  and  may  wear, 
But  must  be  borne.     I  stoop  not  to  despair; 
For  I  have  battled  with  mine  agony, 
And  made  me  wings  wherewith  to  overfly 
The  narrow  circus  of  my  dungeon  wall, 
And  freed  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall  ; 
And  revell'd  among  men  and'  things  divine, 
Arid  pour'd  my  spirit  over  Palestine, 
In  honour  of  the  sacred  war  for  him, 
The  God  who  was  on  earth  and  is  in  heaven, 
For  he  hath  strengthen'd  me  in  heart  and  limb. 
That  through  this  sufferance  I  might  be  forgiven, 
I  have  employed  my  penance  to  record 
How  Salem's  shrine  was  won,  and  how  adored. 
But  this  is  o'er  —  my  pleasant  task  is  done  :  — 
My  long-sustaining  friend  of  many  years  ! 
If  I  do  blot  thy  final  page  with  tears, 
Know,  that  my  sorrows  have  wrung  from  me  none. 
But  thou,  my  young  creation  !   my  soul's  child  ! 
Which  ever  playing  round  me  came  and  smiled, 
And  woo'd  me  from  myself  with  thy  sweet  sight, 
Thou  too  art  gone  —  and  so  is  my  delight  : 
And  therefore  do  I  weep  and  inly  bleed 
With  this  last  bruise  upon  a  broken  reed. 
Thou  too  art  ended  —  what  is  left  me  now  ? 
For  I  have  anguish  yet  to  bear  —  and  how  ? 
I  know  not  that  —  but  in  the  innate  force 
Of  my  own  spirit  shall  be  found  resource. 
I  have  not  sunk,  for  I  had  no  remorse, 
Nor  cause  for  such:  they  call'd  me  mad  —  and  why] 

0  Leonora  !   wilt  not  thou  reply  ? 

1  was  indeed  delirious  in  my  heart 
To  lift  my  love  so  lofty  as  thou  art  : 
But  still  my  frenzy  was  not  of  the  mind  ; 

I  knew  my  fault,  and  feel  my  punishment 
Not  less  because  I  suffer  it  unbent. 

*  At  Ferrara  (in  the  library)  nre  preserved  the  original 
MSS.  of  TASSO'S  Gienisalernme  and  of  GUAKINI'S  Pastor 
Fido,  with  letters  of  TASSO,  one  from  TITIA*  to  AmosTO; 
and  the  inkstand  and  chair,  the  tomb  and  the  house  of  the 
latter.  But  as  misfortune  his  a  greater  interest  for  pos- 
terity, and  little  or  none  for  the  contemporary,  the  cell 
where  TASSO  was  confined  in  the  hospital  of  St.  ANNA 
attracts  a  more  fixed  attention  than  the  residence  or  the 
monument  of  ARIOSTO  —  at  least  it  had  this  effect  on  me. 


That  thou  wert  beautiful,  and  I  not  blind, 

Hath  been  the  sia  which  shuts  me  from  mankind ; 

But  let  them  go,  or  torture  as  they  will, 

My  heart  can  multiply  thine  image  still ; 

Successful  love  may  sate  itself  away, 

The  wretched  are  the  faithful ;  'tis  their  fate 

To  have  all  feeling  save  the  one  decay, 

And  every  passion  into  one  dilate, 

As  rapid  rivers  into  ocean  pour; 

But  ours  is  fathomless,  and  hath  no  shore. 

Above  me,  hark  !  the  long  and  maniac  cry 

Of  minds  and  bodies  in  captivity. 

And  hark !  the  lash  and  the  increasing  howl, 

And  the  half-inarticulate  blasphemy! 

There  be  some  here  with  worse  than  frenzy  foul, 

Some  who  do  still  goad  on  the  o'er-labour'd  mind, 

And  dim  the  little  light  that's  left  behind 

With  needless  torture,  as  their  tyrants  will 

Is  wound  up  to  the  lust  of  doing  ill ; 

With  these  and  with  their  victims  am  I  class'd, 

Mid  sounds  and  sights  like  these  long  years  have 

pass'd ; 

Mid  sights  and  sounds  like  these  my  life  may  close : 
So  let  it  be — for  then  I  shall  repose. 
I  have  been  patient,  let  me  be  so  yet; 
I  had  forgotten  half  I  would  forget, 
But  it  revives — oh  !  would  it  were  my  lot 
To  be  forgetful  as  I  am  forgot ! — 
Feel  I  riot  wroth  with  those  who  bade  me  dwell 
In  this  vast  lazar-house  of  many  woes  } 
Where  laughter  is  not  mirth,  nor  thought  the  mind, 
Nor  words  a  language,  nor  even  men  mankind  ; 
Where  cries  reply  to  curses,  shrieks  to  blows, 
And  each  is  tortured  in  his  separate  hell — 
For  we  are  crowded  in  our  solitudes — 
Many,  but  each  divided  by  the  wall, 
Which  echoes  Madness  in  her  babbling  moods  ; — 
While  all  can  hear,  none  heeds  his  neighbour's 

call- 
None  !  save  that  One,  the  veriest  wretch  of  all, 
Who  was  not  made  to  be  the  mate  of  these, 
Nor  bound  between  Distraction  and  Disease. 
Feel  I  not  wroth  with  those  who  placed  me  here1 
Who  have  debased  me  in  the  minds  of  men, 
Debarring  me  the  usage  of  my  own, 
Blighting  my  life  in  best  of  its  career, 
Branding  my  thoughts  as  things  to  shun  and  fear? 
Would  I  not  pay  them  back  these  pangs  again. 
And  teach  them  inward  sorrow's  stifled  groan  1 
The  struggle  to  he  calm,  and  cold  distress, 
Which  undermines  our  stoical  success? 
No  ! — still  too  proud  to  be  vindictive — I 
Have  pardon'd  princes'  insults,  and  would  die. 
Yes,  sister  of  my  sovereign  !   for  thy  sake 
I  weed  all  bitterness  from  out  my  breast, 
It  hath  no  business  where  thou  art  a  guest; 
Thy  brother  hates — but  I  can  not  detest ; 
Thou  pitiest  not — but  I  can  not  forsake. 
Look  on  a  love  which  knows  not  to  despair, 
But  all  unquench'd  is  still  my  better  part, 
Dwelling  deep  in  my  shut  and  silent  heart 
As  dwells  the  gather'd  lightning  in  its  cloud, 
Encompass'd  with  its  dark  and  rolling  shroud, 
Till  struck — forth  flies  the  all-ethereal  dart ! 
And  thus  at  the  collision  of  thy  name 


LORD    BYRON. 


219 


The  vivid  thought  still  flashes  through  my  frame, 

And  for  a  moment  all  things  as  they  were 

Flit  by  me ; — they  are  gone — I  am  the  same. 

And  yet  my  love  without  ambition  grew ; 

I  knew  thy  state,  my  station,  and  I  knew 

A  princess  was  no  love-mate  for  a  bard  ; 

I  told  it  not,  I  breathed  it  not,  it  was 

Sufficient  to  itself,  its  own  reward  ; 

And  if  my  eyes  reveal'd  it,  they,  alas ! 

Were  punish'd  by  the  silentness  of  thine, 

And  yet  I  did  not  venture  to  repine. 

Thou  wert  to  me  a  crystal-girded  shrine, 

Worshipp'd  at  holy  distance,  and  around 

Hallow'd  and  meekly  kiss'd  the  saintly  ground; 

Not  for  thou  wert  a  princess,  but  that  love 

Hath  robed  thee  with  a  glory,  and  array'd 

Thy  lineaments  in  beauty  that  dismay'd — 

Oh  !  not  dismay'd — but  awed,  like  one  above  ; 

And  in  that  sweet  severity  there  was 

A  something  which  all  softness  did  surpass — 

I  know  not  how — thy  genius  master'd  mine — 

My  star  stood  still  before  thee ; — if  it  were 

Presumptuous  thus  to  love  without  design, 

That  sad  fatality  hath  cost  me  dear ; 

But  thou  art  dearest  still,  and  I  should  be 

Fit  for  this  cell,  which  wrongs  me,  but  for  thee. 

The  very  love  which  lock'd  me  to  my  chain 

Hath  lighten'd  half  its  weight;  and  for  the  rest, 

Though  heavy,  lent  me  vigour  to  sustain, 

And  look  to  thee  with  undivided  breast 

And  foil  the  ingenuity  of  pain. 

It  is  no  marvel — from  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,  which  did  pervade 

And  mingle  with  whate'er  I  saw  on  earth; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 

Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lonely  flowers, 

And  rocks,  whereby  they  grew,  a  paradise, 

Where  I  did  lay  me  down  within  the  shade 

Of  waving  trees,  and  drearn'd  uncounted  hours, 

Though  I  was  chid  for  wandering;  and  the  wise 

Shook  their  white,  aged  heads  o'er  me,  and  said 

Of  such  materials  wretched  men  were  made. 

And  such  a  truant  boy  would  end  in  wo, 

And  that  the  only  lesson  was  a  blow; 

And  then  they  smote  me,  and  I  did  not  weep, 

But  cursed  them  in  my  heart,  and  to  my  haunt 

Return'd  and  wept  alone,  and  dream'd  again 

The  visions  which  arise  without  a  sleep. 

And  with  my  years  my  soul  began  to  pant 

With  feelings  of  strange  tumult  and  soft  pain, 

And  the  whole  heart  exhaled  into  one  want, 

But  undefined  and  wandering,  till  the  day 

I  found  the  thing  I  sought,  and  that  was  thee ; 

And  then  I  lost  my  being  all  to  be 

Absorb'd  in  thine — the  world  was  past  away — 

Thou  didst  annihilate  the  earth  to  me ! 

I  loved  all  solitude — but  little  thought 

To  spend  I  know  not  what  of  life,  remote 

From  all  communion  with  existence,  save 

The  maniac  and  his  tyrant ;  had  I  been 

Their  fellow,  many  years  ere  this  had  seen 

My  mind  like  theirs  corrupted  to  its  grave, 

But  who  hath  seen  me  writhe,  or  heard  me  rave1? 

Perchance  in  such  a  cell  we  suffer  more 

Than  the  wreck'd  sailor  on  his  desert  shore ; 


The  world  is  all  before  him — mine  is  here, 
Scarce  twice  the  space  they  must  accord  my  bier. 
What  though  he  perish,  he  may  lift  his  eye 
And  with  a  dying  glance  upbraid  the  sky — 
I  will  not  raise  my  own  in  such  reproof, 
Although  'tis  clouded  by  my  dungeon  roof. 
Yet  do  I  feel  at  times  my  mind  decline, 
But  with  a  sense  of  its  decay: — I  see 
Unwonted  lights  along  my  prison  shine, 
And  a  strange  demon,  who  is  vexing  me 
With  pilfering  pranks  and  petty  pains,  below 
The  feeling  of  the  healthful  and  the  free ; 
But  much  to  one,  who  long  hath  suffer'd  so, 
Sickness  of  heart,  and  narrowness  of  place, 
AnJ  all  that  may  be  borne,  or  can  debase. 
I  thought  mine  enemies  had  been  but  man, 
But  spirits  may  be  leagued  with  them — all  earth 
Abandons — Heaven  forgets  me; — in  the  dearth 
Of  such  defence  the  powers  of  evil  can, 
It  may  be,  tempt  me  fuither,  and  prevail 
Against  the  outworn  creature  they  assail. 
Why  in  this  furnace  is  my  spirit  proved 
Like  steel  in  tempering  fire  1   because  I  loved  1 
Because  I  loved  what  not  to  love,  and  see, 
Was  more  or  less  than  mortal,  and  than  me. 
I  once  was  quick  in  feeling — that  is  o'er ; — 
My  scars  are  callous,  or  I  should  have  dash'd 
My  brain  against  these  bars  as  the  sun  flash'd 
In  mockery  through  them  ; — if  I  bear  and  bore 
The  much  I  have  recounted,  and  the  more 
Which  hath  no  words,  'tis  that  I  would  not  die 
And  sanction  with  self-slaughter  the  dull  lie 
Which  snared  me  here,  and  with  the  brand  of  shame 
Stamp  madness  deep  into  my  memory, 
And  woo  compassion  to  a  blighted  name, 
Sealing  the  sentence  which  my  foes  proclaim. 
No — it  shall  be  immortal! — and  I  make 
A  future  temple  of  my  present  cell, 
Which  nations  yet  shall  visit  for  my  sake. 
While  thou,  Ferrara !  when  no  longer  dwell 
The  ducal  chiefs  within  thee,  shall  fall  down, 
And  crumbling  piecemeal  view  thy  heartless  halls, 
A  poet's  wreath  shall  be  thine  only  crown, 
A  poet's  dungeon  thy  most  far  renown, 
While  strangers  wonder  o'er  thy  unpeopled  walls  ! 
And  thou,  Leonora  !  thou — who  wert  ashamed 
That  such  as  I  could  love — who  blush'd  to  hear 
To  less  than  monarchs  that  thou  couldst  be  dear, 
Go !  tell  thy  brother  that  my  heart,  untamed 
By  grief,  years,  weariness — and  it  may  be 
A  taint  of  that  he  would  impute  to  me — 
From  long  infection  of  a  den  like  this, 
Where  the  mind  rots  congenial  with  the  abyss, 
Adores  thee  still ; — arid  add — that  when  the  towers 
And  battlements  which  guard  his  joyous  hours 
Of  banquet,  dance,  and  revel,  are  forgot, 
Or  left  untended  in  a  dull  repose, 
This — this  shall  be  a  consecrated  spot ! 
But  thou — when  all  that  birth  and  beauty  throws 
Of  magic  round  thee  is  extinct — shall  have 
One  half  the  laurel  which  o'ershades  my  grave. 
No  power  in  death  can  tear  our  names  apart, 
As  none  in  life  could  rend  thee  from  my  heart. 
Yes,  Leonora  !  it  shall  be  our  fate 
To  be  entwined  for  ever — but  too  late ! 


220 


LORD   BYRON. 


THE  DREAM. 

OUR  life  is  twofold:   sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death  and  existence  ;  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality, 
And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy: 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts, 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils, 
They  do  divide  our  being;  they  become 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 
And  look  like  heralds  of  eternity: 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they  speak 
Like  sybils  of  the  future;  they  have  power — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 
They  make  u.s  what  we  were  not — what  they  will, 
Arid  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by, — 
The  dread  of  vanish'd  shadows.     Are  they  so  ] 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  1      What  are  they  ] 
Creations  of  the  mind  1     The  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been, — and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 
I  would  recall  a  vision  which  I  dream'd 
Perchance  in  sleep, — for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. 

I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green  and  of  mild  declivity, — the  last 
As  'twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  wood.s  and  corn-fields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scatter'd  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs;  the  hill 
Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fix'd, — 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing;  the  one,  on  all  that  was  beneath — 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  : 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful ; 
And  both  were  young,  yet  not  alike  in  youth. 
As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood  ; — 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years ;  and,  to  his  eye, 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth — 
And  that  was  shining  on  him:  he  had  look'd 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away; 
He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers : 
She  was  his  voice ; — he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words :  she  was  his  sight, 
For  his  eye  follow'd  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  colour'd  all  his  objects; — he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, — 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all !   upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 
And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously; — his  heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 
But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share: 


Her  sighs  were  not  for  him !  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother, — but  no  more:  'twas  much, 
For  brotherless  she  was;  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestow'd  on  him; 
Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 
Of  a  time-honour'd  race.     It  was  a  name    [why  ] 
Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not, — and 
Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she  loved 
Another !  even  now  she  loved  another ; 
And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar,  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparison'd : 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 
The  boy  of  whom  I  spake ; — he  was  alone, 
And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro:  anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 
Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he  lean'd 
His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  'twere 
With  a  convulsion, — then  arose  again, 
And,  with  his" teeth  and  quivering  hands,  did  tear 
What  he  had  written ;  but  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  quiet :  as  he  paused, 
The  lady  of  his  love  re-enter'd  there ; 
She  was  serene  and  smiling  then, — and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved !  she  knew, 
For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 
Was  darken'd  with  her  shadow ;  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  wretched, — but  she  saw  not  all. 
He  rose,  and,  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp, 
He  took  her  hand  ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced, — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came  : 
He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 
Retired, — but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu  ; 
For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles :  he  pass'd 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  hall, 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way, 
And  ne'er  repass'd  that  hoary  threshold  more! 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  boy  was  sprung  to  manhood  :  in  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams ;  he  was  girt 
With  strange  and  dusky  aspects  ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been:  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer ! 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me ;  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all, — and  in  the  last  he  lay 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couch'd  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Or  ruin'd  walls,  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  rear'd  them :  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fasten'd  near  a  fountain ;  and  a  man, 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb,  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumber'd  around ; 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky — 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  heaven. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 


LORD    BYRON. 


221 


Who  did  not  love  her  better :  in  her  home, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native  home, 
She  dwelt  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  beauty, — but  behold ! 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  all  she  loved  ; 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill  repress'd  affliction,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be? — she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved; 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  mind, — a  spectre  of  the  past. 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  return'd.     I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  altar,  with  a  gentle  bride : 
Her  face  was  fair, — but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  starlight  of  his  boyhood  !  as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  selfsame  aspect  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude;  and  then, 
As  in  that  hour,  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced, — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came ; 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows, — but  heard  not  his  own  words; 
And  all  things  reel'd  around  him !   he  could  see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accnstom'd  hall,  [been ; 
And  the  renciember'd  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, — 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back, 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light: 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time  ? 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  lady  of  his  love, — oh !  she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul :  her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, — 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  t'.ie  earth  :  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things  ; 
And  forms — impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight — familiar  were  to  hers, 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy  !  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness ;  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift  : 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth ! 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  alone  as  heretofore ; 
Th3  beings  that  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  with  him!   he  was  a  mark 
For  blight  and  desolation. — compass'd  round 
With  h  itrod  and  contention  :  pain  was  mix'd 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him,  until, 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days, 
He  fed  on  poisons,  arid  they  had  no  power, — 


But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment :  he  lived 

Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men, 

And  made  him  friends  of  mountains:  with  the  stars 

And  the  quick  spirit  of  the  universe 

He  held  his  dialogues ;  and  they  did  teach 

To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries ; 

To  him  the  book  of  night  was  open'd  wide, 

And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  reveal'd 

A  marvel  and  a  secret — be  it  so. 

My  dream  was  past;  it  had  no  further  change. 
It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 
Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 
Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 
To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

A    FABLE. 


SONNET    ON     CHILLON. 

T.  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind  ! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty!   thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind ; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 

And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 

Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  't  was  trod, 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 

By  Bonnivard  J — May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


MY  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years, 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 

As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears: 
My  limbs  are  bow'd,  though  not  with  toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose, 
For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  bann'd  and  barr'd — forbidden  fare; 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffer'd  chains  and  courted  death ; 
That  father  perish'd  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place; 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one, 

Six  in  youth  and  one  in  age, 
Finish'd  as  they  had  begun. 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage  ; 
One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  seal'd ; 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied  ; 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast, 
Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last 


LORD    BYRON. 


There  are  seven  pillars  of  gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old, 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprison'd  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left ; 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp: 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away, 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er; 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  droop'd  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

in. 

They  chain'd  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone : 
We  could  not  move  a  single  pace, 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 
But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight ; 
And  thus  together — yet  apart, 
Fcttev'd  in  hand,  but  pined  in  heart; 
'Twas  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 
To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 
And  each  turn  comforter  to  each  . 
With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 
Or  song  heroically  bold  ; 
But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 
Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 
An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 

A  grating  sound — not  full  and  free, 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be ; 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

IV. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three, 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I  ought  to  do — and  did  my  best — 

And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 

Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 

To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven, 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved  ; 

And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 

To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest ; 

For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free) — 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 

A  sunset  till  its  summer  's  gone, 
Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 

The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 
And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 

And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 


With  tears  for  naught  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flow'd  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  wo 
Which  he  abhorr'd  to  view  below. 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  form'd  to  combat  with  his  kind; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perish'd  in  the  foremost  rank 

With  joy  :  but  not  in  chains  to  pine  : 
His  spirit  wither'd  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine ; 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  follow'd  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf, 
And  fetter'd  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 


Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls. 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 
Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement,* 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthrals ; 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay, 
We  heard  it  rippl«  night  and  day ; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knock'd ; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were  high 
And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rock'd, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshock'd, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

VII. 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined  : 


*  The  Chateau  de  Chillon  is  situated  between  Clarens 
and  Villeneuve,  which  last  is  at  one  extremity  of  the  Lake 
of  Geneva.  On  its  left  are  the  entrances  of  the  Rhone, 
and  opposite  are  the  heights  of  Meillerie  arid  the  range  of 
Alps  above  Boveret  and*St.  Gingo. 

Neas  it,  on  a  hill  behind,  is  a  torrent;  below  it.  wash- 
ing its  walls,  the  lake  has  been  fathomed  to  the  depth  of 
800  feet,  (French  measure  ;)  within  it  are  a  range  of  dun- 
geons, in  which  the  early  reformers,  and  subsequently 
prisoners  of  slate,  were  confined.  Across  one  of  the 
vaults  is  a  beam  black  with  age,  on  which  we  were  in- 
formed that  the  condemned  were  formerly  executed.  In 
the  cells  are  seven  pillars,  or,  rather,  eight,  one  being 
half-merged  in  the  wall;  in  some  of  these  are  rings  for 
the  fetters  and  the  fettered:  in  the  pavement  the  steps 
of  Bonn ivard  have  left  their  traces— he  was  confined  here 
several  years. 

It  is  by  ihis  castlo  that  Rousseau  hns  fixed  the  catas- 
trophe of  his  Helnise,  in  the  rescue  of  one  of  her  child- 
•en  by. Julie  from  the  water ;  the  shock  of  which,  and 
the  illness  produced  by  the  immersion,  is  the  cause  of  her 
denth. 

The  chateau  is  large,  and  seen  along  the  lake  for  a 
»reat  distance.  The  walls  are  white. 


LORD    BYRON. 


223 


He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food  ;     % 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude, 
For  we  were  used  to  hunters'  fare, 
And  for  the  like  had  little  care : 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat ; 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moisten'd  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den  : 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  1 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb  : 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mold 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  cold, 
Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side ; 
But  why  delay  the  truth] — he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, 
Though  hard  I  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  unlock'd  his  chain, 
And  scoop'd  for  him  a  shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begg'd  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 
That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laugh'd — and  laid  him  there, 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love ; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument ! 

V1TI. 

But  he,  the  favourite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherish'd  since  his  natal  hour, 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyr'd  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free ; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired —  • 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  wither'd  on  the  stalk  away. 

Oh  God  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood : — 

I  've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood ; 

I  've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 

Strive  with  a  swoln,  convulsive  motion ; 

I  've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread : 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  wo 

Unmix'd  with  such — but  sure  and  slow: 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind, 

Arid  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind  ; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb, 


Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 
As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray — 
An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 
That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 
And  not  a  word  of  murmur — not 
A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot, — 
A  little  talk  of  better  days, 
A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 
For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most ; 
And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 
Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 
More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less : 
listen'd,  but  I  could  not  hear — 
call'd,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear ; 
knew  't  was  hopeless,  but  my  dread 
iVould  not  be  thus  admonished  ; 
call'd,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 
burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 
And  rush'd  to  him : — I  found  him  not, 
/  only  stirr'd  in  this  black  spot, 
/  only  lived — I  only  drew 
The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew; 
The  last — the  sole — the  dearest  link 
Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 
Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 
Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 
One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 
My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe : 
I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still, 
Alas!  my  own  was  full  as  chill; 
I  had  not  strength  to  stir,  or  strive, 
But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive— 
A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know 
That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 
I  know  not  why 
I  could  not  die, 

I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death. 


What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well — I  never  knew — 

First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 
And  then  of  darkness  too: 

I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none — 

Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 

As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray ; 

It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day, 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness — without  a  place; 

There  were  no  stars — no  earth — no  time — 

No  check — no  change — no  good — no  crime — 

But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 

Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death; 

A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  arid  motionless. 


A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, 
It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird ; 


224 


LORD    BYRON. 


It  ceased — and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard, 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery ; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track  : 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before ; 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done ; 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perch'd  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree ; 
A  lovely  bird  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seem'd  to  say  them  all  for  me ! 
I  never  saw  its  like  before, 
I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more : 
It  seem'd  like  me  to  want  a  mate, 
But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 
And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 
And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 
Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 
I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine, 
But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird  !  I  could  not  wish  for  thine : 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise  ; 
For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought !  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile ; 
I  sometimes  deem'd  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me ; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  't  was  mortal — well  I  knew, 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone, — 
Lone — as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 
Lone — as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day, 
While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 


A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate  ; 
My  keepers  grew  compassionate. 
I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 
They  were  inured  to  sights  of  wo, 
But  so  it  was  : — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfasten'd  did  remain: 
And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side. 
And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 
And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 
And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 
Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 
My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod  ; 
For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 


My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 
And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XII. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall  : 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me  : 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery  ; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad ; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barr'd  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 

XIII. 

I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame ; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide,  long  lake  below, 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow  ; 
I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channell'd  rock  and  broken  bush ; 
I  saw  the  white-wall'd  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down ; 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view  ; 
A  small,  green  isle,  it  seem'd  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor; 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 
The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seem'd  joyous  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seem'd  to  fly ; 
And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load  ; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save,     - 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest. 


It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days — 

I  kept  no  count — I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote; 
At  last,  men  came  to  set  me  free, 

I  ask'd  not  why,  and  reck'd  not  where  ; 
It  wa<*  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fetter'd  or  fetterless  to  be : 

I  lenrn'd  to  love  despair. 
And  thus,  when  they  appcar'd  at  last, 
AnJ  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 


LORD    BYRON. 


225 


These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own  ! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home  : 
With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watch'd  them  in  their  sullen  trade ; 
Had  seen  the  mice  hy  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they  ] 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 
And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell ! 
In  quiet  we  had  learn'd  to  dwell — 
My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are: — even  I 
Regain'd  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


WATERLOO. 

THERE  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily,  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage-bell ;      [knell ! 
But  hush !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?     No  :  't  was  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconfined;  [meet, 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet — 
But  hark! — that   heavy  sound  breaks  in  once 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat;      [more, 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  !   [roar  ! 
Arm ! — arm  !   it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening 

Within  a  window'd  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sat  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain  ;  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  death's  prophetic  ear; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deem'd  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretch'd  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier,  [quell : 
And  roused   the  vengeance  blood   alone  would 
He  rush'd  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  ;  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes,  [rise ! 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet,  such  awful  morn  could 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder,  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 


Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips — "  The  foe  !  They 
come,  they  come !" 

And  wild  and  high  the  "Cameron'sgathering"  rose! 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's  hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her  Saxon  foes; — 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch  thrills, 
Savage  and  shrill !  But  with  the  breath  which  fills 
Their  mountain-pipe,  so  fill  the  mountaineers 
With  the  fierce  native  daring  which  instils 
The  stirring  memory  of  a  thousand  years,  [ears ! 
And  Evan's,  Donald's  fame  rings  in  each  clansman's 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy,  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow, 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valour  rolling  on  the  foe,        [and  low. 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal  sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which,  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  cover'd  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial 
blent ! 


MONODY    ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE 
RIGHT  HON.  R.  B.  SHERIDAN. 

SPOKEN   AT   DRURY-LANE   THEATRE. 


the  last  sunshine  of  expiring  day 
In  summer's  twilight  weeps  itself  away, 
Who  hath  not  felt  the  softness  of  the  hour 
Sink  on  the  heart,  as  dew  along  the  flower? 
With  a  pure  feeling  which  absorbs  and  awes, 
While  Nature  makes  that  melancholy  pause, 
Her  breathing  moment  on  the  bridge  where  Time 
Of  light  and  darkness  forms  an  arch  sublime  : 
Who  hath  not  shared  that  calm  so  still  and  deep, 
The  voiceless  thought  which  would  not  speak  but 
A  holy  concord,  and  a  bright  regret,  [weep, 

A  glorious  sympathy  with  suns  that  set? 
'Tis  not  harsh  sorrow,  but  a  tenderer  wo, 
Nameless,  but  dear  to  gentle  hearts  below, 
Felt  without  bitterness,  but  full  and  clear, 
A  sweet  dejection,  a  transparent  tear, 
Unmix'd  with  worldly  grief  or  selfish  stain, 
Shed  without  shame,  and  secret  without  pain. 
Even  as  the  tenderness  that  hour  instils 
When  summer's  day  declines  along  the  hills, 
So  feels  the  fulness  of  our  heart  and  eyes 
When  all  of  genius  which  can  perish  dies. 
A  mighty  spirit  is  eclipsed  —  a  power 
Hath  pass'd  from  day  to  darkness  —  to  whose  hour 


226 


LORD    BYRON. 


Of  light  no  likeness  is  bequeath'd — no  name, 
Focus  at  once  of  all  the  rays  of  fame  ! 
The  flash  of  wit — the  bright  intelligence, 
The  beam  of  song — the  blaze  of  eloquence, 
Set  with  their  sun — but  still  have  left  behind 
The  enduring  produce  of  immortal  mind  ; 
Fruits  of  a  genial  morn  and  glorious  noon, 
A  deathless  part  of  him  who  died  too  soon, 
But  small  that  portion  of  the  wondrous  whole, 
These  sparkling  segments  of  that  circling  soul, 
Which  all  embraced,  and  lighten'd  over  all, 
To  cheer,  to  pierce,  to  please,  or  to  appal. 
From  the  charm'd  council  to  the  festive  board, 
Of  human  feelings  the  unbounded  lord ; 
In  whose  acclaim  the  loftiest  voices  vied,     [pride. 
The  praised,  the  proud,  who  made  his  praise  their 
When  the  loud  cry  of  trampled  Hindostan* 
Arose  to  heaven  in  her  appeal  from  man, 
His  was  the  thunder — his  the  avenging  rod, 
The  wrath — the  delegated  voice  of  God !    [blazed 
Which  shook  the  nations  through  his  lips — and 
Till  vanquish'd  senates  trembled  as  they  praised. 
And  here,  oh  !  here,  where  yet  all  young  and  warm 
The  gay  creations  of  his  spirit  charm, 
The  matchless  dialogue,  the  deathless  wit, 
Which  knew  not  what  it  was  to  intermit; 
The  glowing  portraits,  fresh  from  life,  that  bring 
Home  to  our  hearts  the  truth  from  which  they  spring ; 
These  wondrous  beings  of  his  fancy,  wrought 
To  fulness  by  the  fiat  of  his  thought, 
Here  in  their  first  abode  you  still  may  meet, 
Bright  with  the  hues  of  his  Promethean  heat, 
A  halo  of  the  light  of  other  days, 
Which  still  the  splendour  of  its  orb  betrays. 
But  should  there  be  to  whom  the  fatal  blight 
Of  failing  wisdom  yields  a  base  delight ; 
Men  who  exult  when  minds  of  heavenly  tone 
Jar  in  the  music  which  was  born  their  own ; 
Still  let  them  pause — Ah  !  little  do  they  know 
That  what  to  them  seem'd  vice  might  be  but  wo. 
Hard  is  his  fate  on  whom  the  public  gaze 
Is  fix'd  forever  to  detract  or  praise ; 
Repose  denies  her  requiem  to  his  name, 
And  folly  loves  the  martyrdom  of  fame. 
The  secret  enemy  whose  sleepless  eye 
Stands  sentinel,  accuser,  judge,  and  spy, 
The  foe,  the  fool,  the  jealous,  and  the  vain, 
The  envious  who  but  breathe  in  other's  pain, 
Behold  the  host !  delighting  to  deprave, 
Who  track  the  steps  of  glory  to  the  grave, 
Watch  every  fault  that  daring  genius  owes 
Half  to  the  ardour  which  its  birth  bestows, 
Distort  the  truth,  accumulate  the  lie, 
And  pile  the  pyramid  of  calumny! 
These  are  his  portion — but  if,  join'd  to  these 
Gaunt  poverty  should  league  with  deep  disease, 
If  the  high  spirit  must  forget  to  soar, 
And  stoop  to  strive  with  misery  at  the  door, 
To  soothe  indignity — and  face  to  face 
Meet  sordid  rage,  and  wrestle  with  disgrace, 

*  Sc e  Fox,  Burke,  and  Pitt's  eulogy  on  Mr.  Sheridan's 
speech  on  the  charges  exhibited  against  Mr.  Hastings  in 
the  House  of  Commons.  Mr.  Pitt  entreated  the  House 
to  adjourn,  to  give  time  for  a  calmer  consideration  of  the 
question  than  could  then  occur  after  the  immediate  effect 
of  that  oration. 


To  find  in  hope  but  the  renew'd  caress, 
The  serpent-fold  of  further  faithlessness, — 
If  such  may  be  the  ills  which  men  assail, 
What  marvel  if  at  last  the  mightiest  fail  1 
Breasts- to  whom  all  the  strength  of  feeling  given 
Bear    hearts    electric,    charged    with    fire    from 
Black  with  the  rude  collision,  inly  torn,    [heaven, 
By  clouds  surrounded,  and  on  whirlwinds  borne, 
Driven  o'er  the  lowering  atmosphere  that  nurst 
Thoughts  which  have  turn'd  to  thunder — scorch — 
B  ut  far  from  us  and  from  our  mimic  scene  [and  burst. 
Such  things  should  be — if  such  have  ever  been  ; 
Ours  be  the  gentler  wish,  the  kinder  task, 
To  give  the  tribute  glory  need  not  ask, 
To  mourn  the  vanish'd  beam,  and  add  our  mite 
Of  praise  in  payment  of  a  long  delight. 
Ye  orators !  whom  yet  our  councils  yield, 
Mourn  for  the  veteran  hero  of  your  field  ! 
The  worthy  rival  of  the  wondrous  Three  !* 
Whose  words  were  sparks  of  immortality  ! 
Ye  bards  !  to  whom  the  drama's  muse  is  dear, 
He  was  your  master — emulate  him  here  ! 
Ye  men  of  wit  and  social  eloquence  ! 
He  was  your  brother — bear  his  ashes  hence  ! 
While  powers  of  mind,  almost  of  boundless  range, 
Complete  in  kind — as  various  in  their  change, 
While  eloquence,  wit,  poesy,  and  mirth, 
That  humble  harmonist  of  care  on  earth, 
Survive  within  our  souls — while  lives  our  sense 
Of  pride  in  merit's  proud  pre-eminence, 
Long  shall  we  seek  his  likeness — long  in  vain, 
And  turn  to  all  of  him  which  may  remain, 
Sighing  that  Nature  form'd  but  one  such  man, 
And  broke  the  die — in  moulding  Sheridan ! 


THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE. 

THE  isles  of  Greece  !  the  isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Bless'd." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea  ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations ; — all  were  his ! 


*  Fox— Pitt— Burke. 


LORD    BYRON. 


227 


He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 
And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they "? 

And  where  are  they  1 — and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  1   On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  1 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  1 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  bless'd  ? 

Must  we  but  blush"? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae, 

What,  silent  still  7  and  silent  all  1 
Ah  !  no  ; — the  voices  of  the  dead 

Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 
And  answer,  «  Let  one  living  head, 

But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come !" 

'T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  rain — in  vain  :  strike  other  chords ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  1 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ] 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  1 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these. 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine ; 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant ;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  or  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend, 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  ! 

Oh  !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

On  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells. 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 


But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 
Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 
Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep — 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die : 
A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 
Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


SOLILOQUY  OF   MANFRED. 

THE  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains. — Beautiful ! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learnTd  the  language  of  another  world. 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  was  wandering, — upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome ; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  star 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber  ;  and 
More  near  from  out  the  Caesars'  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot — Where  the  Caesars  dwelt, 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  levell'd  battlements, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth ; — 
But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection  ! 
While  CaRsars'  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. — 
And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 
Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up, 
As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries, 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  ! — 
The  dead,  but  sceptred  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns. — 

'T  was  such  a  night ! 
'Tis  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time ; 
But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  order. 


228 


LORD   BYRON. 


CECILIA   METELLA. 

THKRE  is  a  stern  round  tower  of  other  daya, 
Firm  as  a  fortress,  with  its  fence  of  stone, 
Such  as  an  army's  baffled  strength  delays, 
Standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
And  with  two  thousand  years  of  ivy  grown, 
The  garland  of  eternity,  where  wave 
The  green  leaves  over  all  by  time  o'erthrown ; — 
What  was  this  tower  of  strength  ?  within  its  cave 
What  treasure  lay  so  lock'd,  so  hid  1 — A  woman's 
grave. 

But  who  was  she,  the  lady  of  the  dead, 
Tomb'd  in  a  palace]  Was  she  chaste  and  fair? 
Worthy  a  king's — or  more — a  Roman's  bed  1 
What  race  of  chiefs  and  heroes  did  she  bear  1 
What  daughter  of  her  beauties  was  the  heir  1 
How  lived,  how  loved,  how  died  she  ?  was  she  not 
So  honour'd — and  conspicuously  there, 
Where  meaner  relics  must  not  dare  to  rot, 
Placed  to  commemorate  a  more  than  mortal  lot  1 

Was  she  as  those  who  love  their  lords,  or  they 
Who  love  the  lords  of  others  1   such  have  been 
Even  in  the  olden  time,  Rome's  annals  say. 
Was  she  a  matron  of  Cornelia's  mien, 
Or  the  light  air  of  Egypt's  graceful  queen, 
Profuse  of  joy — or  'gainst  it  did  she  war, 
Inveterate  in  virtue  1     Did  she  lean 
To  the  soft  side  of  the  heart,  or  wisely  bar 
Love  from  amongst  her  griefs  ] — for  such  the  af- 
fections are. 

Perchance  she  died  in  youth :  it  may  be,  bow'd 
With  woes  far  heavier  than  the  ponderous  tomb 
That  weigh'd  upon  her  gentle  dust,  a  cloud 
Might  gather  o'er  her  beauty,  and  a  gloom 
In  her  dark  eye,  prophetic  of  the  doom 
Heaven  gives  its  favourites — early  death ;  yet  shed 
A  sunset  charm  around  her,  and  illume, 
With  hectic  light,  the  Hesperus  of  the  dead, 
Of  her  consuming  cheek  the  autumnal  leaf  like  red. 

Perchance  she  died  in  age — surviving  all, 
Charms,  kindred,  children — with  the  silver  gray 
On  her  long  tresses,  which  might  yet  recall, 
It  may  be,  still  a  something  of  the  day 
When  they  were  braided,  and  her  proud  array 
And  lovely  form  were  envied,  praised,  and  eyed 
By  Rome — But  whither  would  conjecture  stray  1 
Thus  much  alone  we  know — Metella  died,  [pride ! 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife ;  behold  his  love  or 

I  know  not  why — but,  standing  thus  by  thee, 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  thine  inmate  known, 
Thou  tomb !  and  other  days  come  back  on  me 
With  recollected  music,  though  the  tone 
Is  changed  and  solemn,  like  the  cloudy  groan 
Of  dying  thunder  on  the  distant  wind ; 
Yet  could  I  seat  me  by  this  ivied  stone 
Till  I  had  bodied  forth  the  heated  mind  [behind ; 
Forms  from  the  flowing  wreck  which  ruin  leaves 

And  from  the  planks,  far  shatter'd  o'er  the  rocks, 
Built  me  a  little  bark  of  hope,  once  more 
To  battle  with  the  ocean  and  the  shocks 
Of  the  loud  breakers,  and  the  ceaseless  roar 


Which  rushes  on  the  solitary  shore 
Where  all  lies  founder'd  that  was  ever  dear : 
But  could  I  gather  from  the  wave-worn  store 
Enough  for  my  rude  boat,  where  should  I  steer  ? 
There  woos  no  home,  nor  hope,  nor  life,  save  what 
is  here. 

Then  let  the  winds  howl  on  \  their  harmony 
Shall  henceforth  be  my  music,  and  the  night 
The  sound  shall  temper  with  the  owlets'  cry, 
As  I  now  hear  them,  in  the  fading  light 
Dim  o'er  the  bird  of  darkness'  native  site, 
Answering  each  other  on  the  Palatine,     [bright, 
With  their  large  eyes,  all   glistening  gray  and 
And  sailing  pinions. — Upon  such  a  shrine 
What  are  our  petty  griefs! — let  me  not  number  mine. 


THE  OCEAN. 

OH  !  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her ! 
Ye  elements  ! — in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted — Can  ye  not 
Accord  me  such  a  being  1  Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot  ? 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely  be  our  lot. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore ; 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean — roll  ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ; — upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  un- 
known. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths, — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him, — thou  dost  arise  [wields 
And  shake  him  from  thee ;  the  vile  strength  he 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth ; — there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war ; 


LORD    BYRON. 


229 


These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since ;  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage ;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so  thou, 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play — 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thy  azure  brow — 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests :  in  all  time, 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving ;  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime — 
The  image  of  eternity — the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless, 
alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean!  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers — they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  thy  hand  upon  thy  mane-^as  I  do  here. 


TO  THYRZA. 

WITHOUT  a  stone  to  mark  the  spot, 

And  say,  what  truth  might  well  have  said 
By  all,  save  one,  perchance  forgot, 

Ah,  wherefore  art  thou  lowly  laid! 
By  many  a  shore  and  many  a  sea 

Divided,  yet  beloved  in  vain; 
The  past,  the  future  fled  to  thee 

To  bid  us  meet — no — ne'er  again  ! 
Could  this  have  been — a  word,  a  look 

That  softly  said,  «  We  part  in  peace," 
Had  taught  my  bosom  how  to  brook, 

With  fainter  sighs,  thy  soul's  release. 
And  didst  thou  not,  since  Death  for  thee 

Prepared  a  light  and  pangless  dart, 
Once  long  for  him  thou  ne'er  shall  see, 

Who  held,  and  holds  thee  in  his  heart  ? 
Oh !  who  like  him  had  watch'd  thee  here  1 

Or  sadly  mark'd  thy  glazing  eye 
In  .that  dread  hour  ere  death  appear, 

When  silent  sorrow  fears  to  sigh, 
Till  all  was  past"!     But  when  no  more 

'T  was  thine  to  reck  of  human  wo, 
Affection's  heart-drops,  gushing  o'er, 

Had  flow'd  as  fast — as  now  they  flow. 
Shall  they  not  flow,  when  many  a  day 

In  these,  to  me,  deserted  towers, 
Ere  call'd  but  for  a  time  away, 

Affection's  mingling  tears  were  ours  ? 


Ours  too  the  glance  none  saw  beside ; 

The  smile  none  else  might  understand ; 
The  whisper'd  thought  of  hearts  allied, 

The  pressure  of  the  thrilling  hand ; 
The  kiss,  so  guiltless  and  refined, 

That  Jove  each  warmer  wish  forbore  ; 
Those  eyes  proclaim'd  so  pure  a  mind, 

Even  passion  blush'd  to  plead  for  more. 
The  tone,  that  taught  me  to  rejoice, 

When  prone,  unlike  thee  to  repine ; 
The  song,  celestial  from  thy  voice, 

But  sweet  to  me  from  none  but  thine, 
The  pledge  we  wore — I  wear  it  still, 

But  where  is  thine  ! — ah,  where  art  thou  1 
Oft  have  I  borne  the  weight  of  ill, 

But  never  bent  beneath  till  now  ! 
Well  hast  thou  left  in  life's  best  bloom 

The  cup  of  wo  for  me  to  drain  ; 
If  rest  alone  be  in  the  tomb, 

I  would  not  wish  thee  here  again : 
But  if  in  worlds  more  blest  than  this 

Thy  virtues  seek  a  fitter  sphere, 
Impart  some  portion  of  thy  bliss, 

To  wean  me  from  mine  anguish  here. 
Teach  me — too  early  taught  by  thee  1 

To  bear,  forgiving  and  forgiven  : 
On  earth  thy  love  was  such  to  me ; 

It  fain  would  form  my  hope  in  heaven  ! 


STANZAS. 

AWAY,  away,  ye  notes  of  wo. 

Be  silent,  thou  once  soothing  strain, 
Or  I  must  flee  from  hence,  for,  oh ! 

I  dare  not  trust  those  sounds  again. 
To  me  they  speak  of  brighter  days — 

But  lull  the  chords,  for  now,  alas ! 
I  must  not  think,  I  may  not  gaze 

On  what  I  am — on  what  I  was. 
The  voice  that  made  those  sounds  more  sweet 

Is  hush'd,  and  all  their  charms  are  fled ; 
And  now  their  softest  notes  repeat 

A  dirge,  an  anthem  o'er  the  dead ! 
Yes,  Thyrza !  yes,  they  breathe  of  thee, 

Beloved  dust !  since  dust  thou  art ; 
And  all  that  once  was  harmony 

Is  worse  than  discord  to  my  heart ! 
'Tis  silent  all ! — but  on  my  ear 

The  well-remember'd  echoes  thrill ; 
I  hear  a  voice  I  would  not  hear, 

A  voice  that  now  might  well  be  still : 
Yet  oft  my  doubting  soul  'twill  shake; 

Even  slumber  owns  its  gentle  tone, 
Till  consciousness  will  vainly  wake 

To  listen,  though  the  dream  be  flown. 
Sweet  Thyrza  !  waking  as  in  sleep, 

Thou  art  but  now  a  lovely  dream ; 
A  star  that  trembled  o'er  the  deep, 

Then  turn'd  from  earth  its  tender  beam. 
But  he,  who  through  life's  dreary  way 

Must  pass,  when  heaven  is  veil'd  in  wrath, 
Will  long  lament  the  vanish'd  ray 

That  scatter'd  gladness  o'er  his  path. 
U 


230 


LORD    BYRON. 


TO  THYRZA. 


OJVE  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free 

From  pangs  that  rend  my  heart  in  twain ; 
One  last  long  sigh  to  love  and  thee, 

Then  back  to  busy  life  again. 
It  suits  me  well  to  mingle  now 

With  things  that  never  pleased  before: 
Though  every  joy  is  fled  below, 

What  future  grief  can  touch  me  more  1 

Then  bring  me  wine — the  banquet  bring ; 

Man  was  not  form'd  to  live  alone 
I  '11  be  that  light  unmeaning  thing 

That  smiles  with  all,  and  weeps  with  none. 
It  was  not  thus  in  days  more  dear — 

It  never  would  have  been,  but  thou 
Hast  fled,  and  left  me  lonely  here  ; 

Thou'rt  nothing,  all  are  nothing  now. 

In  vain  my  lyre  would  lightly  breathe  ! 

The  smile,  that  sorow  fain  would  wear 
But  mocks  the  wo  that  lurks  beneath, 

Like  roses  o'er  a  sepulchre. 
Though  gay  companions  o'er  the  bowl 

Dispel  a  while  the  sense  of  ill ; 
Though  pleasure  fires  the  maddening  soul, 

The  heart — the  heart  is  lonely  still ! 

On  many  a  lone  and  lovely  night 

It  sooth'd  to  gaze  upon  the  sky  ; 
For  then  I  deem'd  the  heavenly  light 

Shone  sweetly  on  thy  pensive  eye  ; 
And  oft  I  thought  at  Cynthia's  noon, 

When  sailing  o'er  the  .^Egean  wave, 
"  Now  Thyrza  gazes  on  that  moon — " 

Alas,  it  gleam'd  upon  her  grave  ! 

When  stretch'd  on  fever's  sleepless  bed, 

And  sickness  shrunk  my  throbbing  veins, 
"  T  is  comfort  still,"  I  faintly  said, 

"  That  Thyrza  cannot  know  my  pains." 
Like  freedom  to  the  time-worn  slave, 

A  boon  'tis  idle  then  to  give, 
Relenting  Nature  vainly  gave 

My  life,  when  Thyrza  ceased  to  live  ! 

My  Thyrza' s  pledge  in  better  days, 

When  love  and  life  alike  were  new, 
How  different  now  thou  meet'st  my  gaze ! 

How  tinged  by  time  with  sorrow's  hue ! 
The  heart  that  gave  itself  with  thee 

Is  silent — ah,  were  mine  as  still ! 
Though  cold  as  e'en  the  dead  can  be, 

It  feels,  it  sickens  with  the  chill. 

Thou  bitter  pledge !  thou  mournful  token  ! 

Though  painful,  welcome  to  my  breast ! 
Still,  still  preserve  that  love  unbroken, 

Or  break  the  heart  to  which  thou'rt  press'd 
Time  tempers  love,  but  not  removes, 

More  hallow'd  when  its  hope  is  fled : 
Oh  !  what  are  thousand  living  loves 

To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead  ? 


ADIEU,  ADIEU!  MY  NATIVE  SHORE. 


«  ADIETJ,  adieu  !  my  native  shore 

Fades  o'er  the  waters  blue  ; 
The  night-winds  sigh,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  seamew. 
Yon  sun  that  sets  upon  the  sea 

We  follow  in  his  flight ; 
Farewell  a  while  to  him  and  thee, 

My  native  land — Good-night ! 

«  A  few  short  hours,'  and  he  will  rise 

To  give  the  morrow  birth  ; 
And  I  shall  hail  the  main  and  skies, 

But  not  my  mother  earth. 
Deserted  is  my  own  good  hall, 

Its  hearth  is  desolate ; 
Wild  weeds  are  gathering  on  the  wall ; 

My  dog  howls  at  the  gate. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  little  page ! 

Why  dost  thou  weep  and  wail? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  the  billows'  rage, 

Or  tremble  at  the  gale  ? 
But  dash  the  tear-drop  from  thine  eye; 

Our  ship  is  swift  and  strong : 
Our  fleetest  falcon  scarce  can  fly 

More  merrily  along." 

"  Let  winds  be  shrill,  let  waves  roll  high, 

I  fear  not  wave  nor  wind ; 
Yet  marvel  not,  Sir  Childe,  that  I 
•   Am  sorrowful  in  mind  ; 
For  I  have  from  my  father  gone, 

A  mother  whom  I  love, 
And  have  no  friend,  save  these  alone, 

But  thee — and  one  above. 

"  My  father  bless'd  me  fervently, 

Yet  did  not  much  complain ; 
But  sorely  will  my  mother  sigh 

Till  I  come  back  again." — 
''Enough,  enough,  my  little  lad! 

Such  tears  become  thine  eye ; 
If  I  thy  guileless  bosom  had, 

Mine  own  would  not  be  dry. 

"  Come  hither,  hither,  my  staunch  yeoman, 

Why  dost  thou  look  so  pale  ? 
Or  dost  thou  dread  a  French  foeman  ? 

Or  shiver  at  the  gale  ?" 
"  Deem'st  thou  I  tremble  for  my  life  1 

Sir  Childe,  I'm  not  so  weak ; 
But  thinking  on  an  absent  wife 

Will  blanch  a  faithful  ehetk. 

"My  spouse  and  boys  dwell  near  thy  hall, 

Along  the  bordering  lake, 
And  when  they  on  their  father  cr.ll, 

What  answer  shall  she  makel" — 
"Enough,  enough,  my  yeoman  good, 

Thy  grief  let  none  gainsay ; 
But  I,  who  am  of  lighter  mood, 

Will  laugh  to  flee  away. 


LORD    BYRON. 


231 


«  For  who  would  trust  the  seeming  sighs 

Of  wife  or  paramour1? 
Fresh  feres  will  dry  the  bright  blue  eyes 

We  late  saw  streaming  o'er. 
For  pleasures  past  I  do  not  grieve, 

Nor  perils  gathering  near ; 
My  greatest  grief  is  that  I  leave 

No  thing  that  claims  a  tear. 

"  And  now  I  'm  in  the  world  alone, 

Upon  the  wide,  wide  sea ; 
But  why  should  I  for  others  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ] 
Perchance  my  dog  will  whine  in  vain, 

Till  fed  by  stranger  hands; 
But  long  ere  I  come  back  again, 

He  'd  tear  me  where  he  stands.    ' 

«  With  thee,  my  bark,  I'll  swiftly  go 

Athwart  the  foaming  brine  ; 
Nor  care  what  land  thou  bear'st  me  to, 

So  not  again  to  mine. 
Welcome,  welcome,  ye  dark  blue  waves  ! 

And  when  you  fail  my  sight, 
Welcome,  ye  deserts,  and  ye  caves ! 

My  native  land — Good-night !" 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  HUGO. 

THE  convent  bells  are  ringing, 

But  mournfully  and  slow  ; 
In  the  gray  square  turrent  swinging, 

With  a  deep  sound,  to  and  fro. 

Heavily  to  the  heart  they  go ! 
Hark  !  the  hymn  is  singing — 

The  song  for  the  dead  below, 

Or  the  living  who  shortly  shall  be  so ! 
For  a  departing  being's  soul  [knoll : 

The  death-hymn   peals   and   the  hollow   bells 
He  is  near  his  mortal  goal ; 
Kneeling  at  the  friar's  knee  ; 
Sad  to  hear — and  piteous  to  see — 
Kneeling  on  the  bare  cold  ground, 
With  the  block  before  and  the  guards  around — 
And  the  headman  with  his  bare  arm  ready, 
That  the  blow  may  be  both  swift  and  steady, 
Feels  if  the  axe  be  sharp  and  true — 
Since  he  set  its  edge  anew  : 
While  the  crowd  in  a  speechless  circle  gather 
To  see  the  son  fall  by  the  doom  of  the  father ! 

It  is  a  lovely  hour  as  yet 

Before  the  summer  sun  shall  set, 

Which  rose  upon  that  heavy  day, 

And  mock'd  it  with  his  steadiest  ray; 

And  his  evening  beams  are  shed 

Full  on  Hugo's  fated  head, 

As  his  last  confession  pouring 

To  the  monk,  his  doom  deploring 

In  penitential  holiness, 

He  bends  to  hear  his  accents  bless 

With  absolution  such  as  may 

Wipe  our  mortal  stains  away. 

That  high  sun  on  his  head  did  glisten, 

As  he  there  did  bow  and  listen — 


And  the  rings  of  chesnut  hair 
Curl'd  half  down  his  neck  so  bare; 
But  brighter  still  the  beam  was  thrown 
Upon  the  axe  which  near  him  shone 
With  a  clear  and  ghastly  glitter — 
Oh  !  that  parting  hour  was  bitter  ! 
Even  the  stern  stood  chill' d  with  awe ; 
Dark  the  crime,  and  just  the  law — 
Yet  they  shudder'd  as  they  saw. 

The  parting  prayers  are  said  and  over 

Of  that  false  son — and  daring  lover  ! 

His  beads  and  sins  are  all  recounted, 

His  hours  to  their  last  minute  mounted — 

His  mantling  cloak  before  was  stripp'd, 

His  bright  brown  locks  must  now  be  clipp'd ; 

'T  is  done — all  closely  are  they  shorn — 

The  vest  which  till  this  moment  worn — 

The  scarf  which  Parisina  gave — 

Must  not  adorn  him  to  the  grave, 

Even  that  must  now  be  thrown  aside, 

And  o'er  his  eyes  the  kerchief  tied  ; 

But  no — that  last  indignity 

Shall  ne'er  approach  his  haughty  eye. 

All  feelings  seemingly  subdued, 

In  deep  disdain  were  half-renew'd, 

When  headman's  hands  prepared  to  bind 

Those  eyes  which  would  not  brook  such  blind, 

As  if  they  dared  not  look  on  death. 

"  No — yours  my  forfeit  blood  and  breath — 

These  hands  are  chain'd — but  let  me  die 

At  least  with  an  unshackled  eye — 

Strike:" — and  as  the  word  he  said, 

Upon  the  block  he  bow'd  his  head  ; 

These  the  last  accents  Hugo  spoke 

"  Strike" — and  flashing  fell  the  stroke  .  - 

Roll'd  the  head — and,  gushing,  sunk 

Back  the  stain'd  and  heaving  trunk 

In  the  dust,  which  each  deep  vein 

Slaked  with  its  ensanguined  rain ; 

His  eyes  and  lips  a  moment  quiver, 

Convulsed  and  quick — then  fix'd  for  ever. 

He  died  as  erring  man  should  die, 

Without  display,  without  parade  ; 

Meekly  had  he  bow'd  and  pray'd, 

As  not  disdaining  priestly  aid, 
Nor  desperate  of  all  hope  on  high. 
And  while  before  the  prior  kneeling, 
His  heart  was  wean'd  from  earthly  feeling; 
His  wrathful  sire — his  paramour — 
What  were  they  in  such  an  hour '? 
No  more  reproach — no  more  despair  ; 
No  thought  but  heaven — no  word  but  prayer — 
Save  the  few  which  from  him  broke, 
When,  bared  to  meet  the  headman's  stroke, 
He  claim'd  to  die  with  eyes  unbound, 
His  sole  adieu  to  those  around. 

Still  as  the  lips  that  closed  in  death, 
Each  gazer's  bosom  held  his  breath ; 
But  yet,  afar,  from  man  to  man, 
A  cold  electric  shiver  ran, 
As  down  the  deadly  blow  descended 
On  him  whose  life  and  love  thus  ended ; 
And  with  a  hushing  sound  compress'd, 
A  sigh  shrunk  back  on  every  breast ; 


232 


LORD    BYRON. 


But  no  more  thrilling  noise  rose  there, 
Beyond  the  blow  that  to  the  block 
Pierced   through  with  forced   and  sullen 
shock. 

Save  one  : — what  cleaves  the  silent  air 

So  madly  shrill,  so  passing  wild  1 

That,  as  a  mother's  o'er  her  child, 

Done  to  death  by  sudden  blow, 

To  the  sky  these  accents  go, 

Like  a  soul's  in  endless  wo. 

Through  Azo's  palace-lattice  driven, 

That  horrid  voice  ascends  to  heaven, 

And  every  eye  is  turn'd  thereon  ; 

But  sound  and  sight  alike  are  gone! 

It  was  a  woman's  shriek — and  ne'er 

In  madlier  accents  rose  despair; 

And  those  who  heard  it,  as  it  past, 

In  mercy  wish'd  it  were  the  last. 

Hugo  is  fallen ;  and,  from  that  hour, 

No  more  in  palace,  hall,  or  bower, 

Was  Parisina  heard  or  seen  : 

Her  name — as  if  she  ne'er  had  been — 

Was  banish'd  from  each  lip  and  ear, 

Like  words  of  wantonness  or  fear; 

And  from  Prince  Azo's  voice,  by  none 

Was  mention  heard  of  wife  or  son ; 

No  tomb — no  memory  had  they ; 

Theirs  was  unconsecrated  clay  ; 

At  least  the  knight's  who  died  that  day  : 

But  Parisina's  fate  lies  hid 

Like  dust  beneath  the  coffin  lid: 

Whether  in  convent  she  abode, 

And  won  to  heaven  her  dreary  road, 

By  blighted  and  remorseful  years 

Of  scourge,  and  fast,  and  sleepless  tears ; 

Or  if  she  fell  by  bowl  or  steel, 

For  that  dark  love  she  dared  to  feel ; 

Or  if,  upon  the  moment  smote, 

She  died  by  tortures  less  remote ; 

Like  him  she  saw  upon  the  block, 

With  heart  that  shared  the  headman's  shock, 

In  quicken'd  brokenness  that  came, 

In  pity,  o'er  her  shatter'd  frame, 

None  knew — and  none  can  ever  know : 

But  whatsoe'er  its  end  below, 

Her  life  began  and  closed  in  wo ! 

And  Azo  found  another  bride, 

And  goodly  sons  grew  by  his  side; 

But  none  so  lovely  and  so  brave 

As  him  who  withcr'd  in  the  grave; 

Or  if  they  were — on  his  cold  eye 

Their  growth  but  glanced  unheeded  by, 

Or  noticed  with  a  smother'd  sigh. 

But  never  tear  his  cheek  descended, 

And  never  smile  his  brow  unbended, 

And  o'er  that  fair  broad  brow  were  wrought 

The  intersected  lines  of  thought ; 

Those  furrows  which  the  burning  share 

Of  sorrow  ploughs  untimely  there; 

Scars  of  the  lacerating  mind, 

Which  the  soul's  war  doth  leave  behind. 

He  was  past  all  mirth  or  wo : 

Nothing  more  remain'd  below 

But  sleepless  nights  and  heavy  days; 

A  mind  all  dead  to  scorn  or  praise, 


A  heart  which  shunn'd  itself — and  yet 

That  would  not  yield — nor  could  forget, 

Which,  when  it  least  appear'd  to  melt, 

Intensely  thought — intensely  felt  : 

The  deepest  ice  which  ever  froze 

Can  only  o'er  the  surface  close — 

The  living  stream  lies  quick  below, 

And  flows — and  cannot  cease  to  flow. 

Still  was  his  seal'd-up  bosom  haunted 

By  thoughts  which  nature  hath  implanted  ; 

Too  deeply  rooted  thence  to  vanish, 

Howe'er  our  stifled  tears  we  banish ; 

When,  struggling  as  they  rise  to  start, 

We  check  those  waters  of  the  heart ; 

They  are  not  dried — those  tears  unshed 

But  flow  back  to  the  fountain-head, 

And,  resting  in  their  spring  more  pure, 

For  ever  in  its  depth  endure, 

Unseen,  unwept,  but  uncongeal'd, 

And  cherish'd  most  where  least  reveal'd. 

With  inward  starts  of  feeling  left, 

To  throb  o'er  those  of  life  bereft ; 

Without  the  power  to  fill  again 

The  desert  gap  which  made  his  pain ; 

Without  the  hope  to  meet  them  where 

United  souls  shall  gladness  share, 

With  all  the  consciousness  that  he 

Had  only  pass'd  a  just  decree ; 

That  they  had  wrought  their  doom  of  ill; 

Yet  Azo's  age  was  wretched  still. 

The  tainted  branches  of  the  tree, 

If  lopp'd  with  care,  a  strength  may  give, 
By  which  the  rest  shall  bloom  and  live 
All  greenly  fresh  and  wildly  free : 
But  if  the  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 
The  waving  boughs  with  fury  scathe, 
The  massy  trunk  the  ruin  feels, 
And  never  more  a  leaf  reveals. 


DEATH  OF  LARA. 

BEXKATH  a  lime,  remoter  from  the  scene, 
Where  but  for  him  that  strife  had  never  been, 
A  breathing,  but  devoted  warrior  lay  : 
'T  was  Lara,  bleeding  fast  from  life  away. 
His  follower  once,  and  now  his  only  guide, 
Kneels  Kaled,  watchful  o'er  his  welling  side,  [rush, 
And  with  his  scarf  would  stanch  the  tides  that 
With  each  convulsion,  in  a  blacker  gush ; 
And  then,  as  his  faint  breathing  waxes  low, 
In  feebler,  not  less  fatal  tricklings  flow  : 
He  scarce  can  speak,  but  motions  him  'tis  vain, 
And  merely  adds  another  throb  to  pain. 
He  clasps  the  hand  that  pang  which  would  assuage, 
And  sadly  smiles  his  thanks  to  that  dark  page, 
Who  nothing  fears,  nor  feels,  nor  heeds,  nor  sees, 
Save  that  damp  brow  which  rests  upon  his  knees ; 
Save  that  pale  aspect,  where  the  eye,  though  dim, 
Held  all  the  light  that  shone  on  earth  for  him. 

The  foe  arrives,  who  long  had  scarch'd  the  fiold, 
Their  triumph  naught  till  Lara  too  should  yirld  ; 
They  would  remove  him,  but  they  see  'twere  vain, 
And  he  regards  them  with  a  calm  disdain, 


LORD    BYRON. 


233 


That  rose  to  reconcile  him  with  his  fate, 
And  that  escape  to  death  from  living  hate  : 
And  Otho  comes,  and,  leaping  from  his  steed, 
Looks  on  the  bleeding  foe  that  made  him  bleed, 
And  questions  of  his  state  ;  he  answers  not, 
Scarce  glances  on  him  as  on  one  forgot, 
And  turns  to  Kaled : — each  remaining  word 
They  understood  not,  if  distinctly  heard ; 
His  dying  tones  are  in  that  other  tongue, 
To  which  some  strange  remembrance  wildly  clung. 
They  speak  of  other  scenes,  but  what — is  known 
To  Kaled,  whom  their  meaning  reach'd  alone ; 
And  he  replied,  though  faintly,  to  their  sound, 
While  gazed  the  rest  in  dumb  amazement  round  : 
They  seem'd  even  then — that  twain — unto  the  last 
To  half-forget  the  present  in  the  past ; 
To  share  between  themselves  some  separate  fate, 
Whose  darkness  none  beside  should  penetrate,  [tone 

Their  words,  though  faint,  were  many — from  the  • 
Their  import  those  who  heard  could  judge  alone; 
From  this,  you  might  have  deera'd  young  Kaled's 

death 

More  near  than  Lara's,  by  his  voice  and  breath, 
So  sad,  so  deep,  and  hesitating  broke 
The  accents  his  scarce-moving  pale  lips  spoke  ; 
But  Lara's  voice,  though  low,  at  first  was  clear 
And  calm,  till  murmuring  death  gasp'd  hoarsely 
But  from  his  visage  little  could  we  guess,    [near ; 
So  unrepentant,  dark,  and  passionless ; 
Save  that,  when  struggling  nearer  to  his  last, 
Upon  that  page  his  eye  was  kindly  cast ; 
And  once,  as  Kaled's  answering  accents  ceased, 
Rose  Lara's  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  east, 
Where  (as  then  the  breaking  sun  from  high 
Roll'd  back  the  clouds)  the  morrow  caught  his  eye, 
Or  that  't  was  chance,  or  some  remember'd  scene, 
That  raised  his  arm  to  point  where  such  had  been, 
Scarce  Kaled  seem'd  to  know,  but  turn'd  away, 
As  if  his  heart  abhorr'd  that  coming  day ; 
And  shrunk  his  glance  before  that  morning  light, 
To  look  on  Lara's  brow — where  all  grew  night. 
Yet  sense  seem'd  left,  though  better  were  its  loss ; 
For  when  one  near  display'd  the  absolving  cross, 
And  proffer'd  to  his  touch  the  holy  bead, 
Of  which  his  parting  soul  might  own  the  need, 
He  look'd  upon  it  with  an  eye  profane,    [disdain  : 
And    smiled — Heaven   pardon  !     if   'twere    with 
And  Kaled,  though  he  spoke  not,  nor  withdrew 
From  Lara's  face  his  fix'd,  despairing  view, 
With  brow  repulsive,  and  with  gesture  swift. 
Flung  back  the  hand  which  held  the  sacred  gift, 
As  if  such  but  disturb'd  the  expiring  man, 
Nor  seem'd  to  know  his  life  but  then  began, 
That  life  of  immortality,  secure 
To  none,  save  them  whose  faith  in  Christ  is  sure. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  that  Lara  drew, 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew ;     [o'er 
His  limbs  stretch'd  fluttering,  and  his  head  droop'd 
The  weak,  yet  still  untiring  knee  that  bore ; 
He  press'd  the  hand  he  held  upon  his  heart — 
It  beats  no  more,  but  Kaled  will  not  part 
With  the  cold  grasp,  but  feels,  and  feels  in  vain, 
For  that  faint  throb  which  answers  not  again. 
"It  beats!" — away,  thou  dreamer!  he  is  gone — 
It  once  was  Lara  which  thou  look'st  upon. 
30 


He  gazed,  as  if  not  yet  had  pass'd  away 
The  haughty  spirit  of  that  humble  clay ; 
And  those  around  have  roused  him  from  his  trance, 
But  cannot  tear  from  thence  his  fixed  glance ; 
And  when,  in  raising  him  from  where  he  bore 
Within  his  arms  the  form  that  felt  no  more, 
He  saw  the  head  his  breast  would  still  sustain, 
Roll  down  like  earth  to  earth  upon  the  plain ; 
He  did  not  dash  himself  thereby,  nor  tear 
The  glossy  tendrils  of  his  raven  hair, 
But  strove  to  stand  and  gaze,  but  reel'd  and  fell, 
Scarce  breathing  more  than  that  he  loved  so  well — 
Than  that  he  loved  !  Oh  !  never  yet  beneath 
The  breast  of  man  such  trusty  love  may  breathe. 
That  trying  moment  hath  at  once  revealed 
The  secret  long  and  yet  but  half-concealed ; 
In  baring  to  revive  that  lifeless  breast, 
Its  grief  seem'd  ended,  but  the  sex  confess'd  ; 
And  life  return'd,  and  Kaled  felt  no  shame — 
What  now  to  her  was  womanhood  or  fame? 

And  Lara  sleeps  not  where  his  fathers  sleep, 
But  where  he  died  his  grave  was  dug  as  deep ; 
Nor  is  his  mortal  slumber  less  profound, 
Though  priest  nor  bless'd  nor  marble  deck'd  the 

mound ; 

And  he  was  mourn'd  by  one  whose  quiet  grief, 
Less  loud,  outlasts  a  people's  for  their  chief. 
Vain  was  all  question  ask'd  her  of  the  past, 
And  vain  e'en  menace — silent  to  the  last ; 
She  told  nor  whence,  nor  why  she  left  behind 
Her  all  for  one  who  seem'd  but  little  kind. 
Why  did  she  love  him'?  Curious  fool ! — be  still — 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ] 
To  her  he  might  be  gentleness ;  the  stern 
Have  deeper  thoughts  than  your  dull  eyes  discern, 
And  when  they  love,  your  smilers  guess  not  how 
Beats  the  strong  heart,  though  less  the  lips  avow. 
They  were  not  common  links,  that  form'dthe  chain 
That  bound  to  Lara  Kaled's  heart  and  brain, 
But  that  wild  tale  she  brook'd  not  to  unfold, 
And  seal'd  is  now  each  lip  that  could  have  told. 

They  laid  him  in  the  earth,  and  on  his  breast, 
Besides  the  wound  that  sent  his  soul  to  rest, 
They  found  the  scatter'd  dints  of  many  a  scar, 
Which  were  not  planted  there  in  recent  war ; 
Where'er  had  pass'd  his  summer  years  of  life, 
It  seems  they  vanish'd  in  a  land  of  strife ; 
But  all  unknown  his  glory  or  his  guilt, 
These  only  told  that  somewhere  blood  was  spilt, 
And  Ezzelin,  who  might  have  spoke  the  past, 
Return'd  no  more — that  night  appear'd  his  last. 

Upon  that  night  (a  peasant's  is  the  tale) 
A  serf  that  cross'd  the  intervening  vale, 
When  Cynthia's  light  almost  gave  way  to  morn, 
And  nearly  veil'd  in  mist  her  waning  horn; 
A  serf,  that  rose  betimes  to  thread  the  wood, 
And  hew  the  bough  that  bought  his  children  food, 
Pass'd  by  the  river  that  divides  the  plain 
Of  Otho's  lands  and  Lara's  broad  domain : 
He  heard  a  tramp — a  horse  and  horseman  broke 
From  out  the  wood — before  him  was  a  cloak 
Wrapt  round  some  burden  at  his  saddle-bow, 
Bent  was  his  head,  and  hidden  was  his  brow. 
Roused  by  the  sudden  sight  at  such  a  time. 
And  some  foreboding  that  it  might  be  crime, 
11  2 


234 


LORD    BYRON. 


Himself  unheeded  watch'd  the  stranger's  course, 
Who  reach'd  the  river,  bounded  from  his  horse, 
And  lifting  thence  the  burden  which  he  bore, 
Heaved  up  the  bank,  and  dash'd  it  from  the  shore, 
Then  paused,  and  look'd,  and  turn'd,  and  seem'd 

to  watch, 

And  still  another  hurried  glance  would  snatch, 
And  follow  with  his  step  the  stream  that  flow'd, 
As  if  even  yet  too  much  its  surface  show'd  : 
At  once  he  started,  stoop'd ;  around  hirn  strown, 
The  winter  floods  had  scatter'd  heaps  of  stone ; 
Of  these  the  heaviest  thence  he  gather'd  there, 
And  slung  them  with  a  more  than  common  care. 
Meantime  the  serf  had  crept  to  where  unseen 
Himself  might  safely  mark  what  this  might  mean. 
He  caught  a  glimpse,  as  of  a  floating  breast, 
And  something  glitter'd  starlike  on  the  vest, 
But  ere  he  well  could  mark  the  buoyant  trunk, 
A  massy  fragment  smote  it,  and  it  sunk  : 
It  rose  again  but  indistinct  to  view, 
And  left  the  waters  of  a  purple  hue, 
Then  deeply  disappear'd  :  the  horseman  gazed, 
Till  ebb'd  the  latest  eddy  it  had  raised ; 
Then  turning,  vaulted  on  his  pawing  steed, 
And  instant  sparr'd  him  into  panting  speed. 
His  face  was  mask'd — the  features  of  the  dead, 
If  dead  it  were,  escap'd  the  observer's  dread; 
But  if  in  sooth  a  star  its  bosom  bore, 
Such  is  the  badge  that  knighthood  ever  wore, 
And  such  'tis  known  Sir  Ezzelin  had  worn 
Upon  the  night  that  led  to  such  a  morn. 
If  thus  he  perish'd,  Heaven  receive  his  soul ! 
His  undiscovered  limbs  to  ocean  roll ; 
And  charity  upon  the  hope  would  dwell, 
It  was  not  Lara's  hand  by  which  he  fell. 

And  Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin,  are  gone, 
Alike  without  their  monumental  stone  ! 
The  first,  all  efforts  vainly  strove  to  wean    [been ; 
From  lingering  where  her  chieftain's  blood  had 
Grief  had  so  tamed  a  spirit  once  so  proud, 
Her  tears  were  few,  her  wailing  never  loud ; 
But  furious  would  you  tear  her  from  the  spot 
Where  vet  she  scarce  believed  that  he  was  not, 
Her  eye  shot  forth  with  all  the  living  fire 
That  haunts  the  tigress  in  her  whelpless  ire; 
But  left  to  waste  her  weary  moments  there, 
She  talk'd  all  idly  unto  shapes  of  air, 
Such  as  the  busy  brain  of  sorrow  paints, 
And  woos  to  listen  to  her  fond  complaints  : 
And  she  would  sit  beneath  the  very  tree 
Where  lay  his  drooping  head  upon  her  knee  ; 
And  in  that  posture  where  she  saw  him  fall, 
His  words,  his  looks,  his  dying  grasp  recall ; 
And  she  had  shorn,  but  saved  her  raven  hair, 
And  oft  would  snatch  it  from  her  bosom  there, 
And  fold,  and  press  it  gently  to  the  ground, 
As  if  she  stanch'd  anew  some  phantom's  wound. 
Herself  would  question,  and  for  him  reply  ; 
Then  rising,  start,  and  beckon  him  to  fly 
From  some  imagined  spectre  in  pursuit : 
Then  seat  her  down  upon  some  linden's  root, 
And  hide  her  visage  with  her  meager  hand, 
Or  trace  strange  characters  along  the  sand — 
This  could  not  last — she  lies  by  him  she  loved ; 
Her  tale  untold — her  truth  too  dearly  proved. 


THE   DESTRUCTION    OF   SENNA- 
CHERIB. 

THE  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the 

sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  : 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath 

blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  wither'd  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  pass'd ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  wax'd  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew 
still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
B  ut  through  it  there  roll'd  not  the  breath  of  his  pride : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  ! 


EVENING. 

ATK  Maria !  blessed  be  the  hour  ! 

The  time,  the  clime,  the  spot,  where  I  so  oft 
Have  felt  that  moment  in  its  fullest  power 

Sink  o'er  the  earth  so  beautiful  and  soft, 
While  swung  the  deep  bell  in  the  distant  tower, 

Or  the  faint  dying  day-hymn  stole  aloft, 
And  not  a  breath  crept  through  the  rosy  air, 
And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seem'd  stirr'd  with  prayer. 

Ave  Maria!  'tis  the  hour  of  prayer  ! 

Ave  Maria  !  'tis  the  hour  of  love  ! 
Ave  Maria  !   may  our  spirits  dare 

Look  up  to  thine  and  to  thy  Son's  above  ! 
Ave  Maria  !  oh  that  face  so  fair  !  [dove — 

Those   downcast   eyes   beneath  the   Almighty 
What  though  'tis  but  a  pictured  image  strike — 
That  painting  is  no  idol,  'tis  too  like. 

Sweet  hour  of  twilight ! — in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood. 
Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flow'd  o'er, 

To  where  the  last  Cesarean  fortress  stood, 
Evergreen  forest!  which  Boccaccio's  lore 

And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee ! 


LORD   BYRON. 


235 


The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 

Were  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine, 
And  vesper-bell's  that  rose  the  boughs  along : 

The  spectre  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line,     [throng, 
His  hell-dogs,  and  their   chase,   and  the    fair 

Which  learn'd  from  this  example  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover,  shadow'd  my  mind's  eye. 

Oh  Hesperus !  thou  bringest  all  good  things — 
Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 

To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 
The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'er-labour'd  steer ; 

Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearth-stone  clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear, 

Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 

Soft  hour !  which  wakes  the  wish  and  melts  the  heart 
Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 

When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are  torn  apart ; 
Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way, 

As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 
Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay  ; 

Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns'? 

Ah  !  surely  nothing  dies  but  something  mourns  ! 


THE   FATE   OF  BEAUTY. 

As  rising  on  its  purple  wing 
The  insect-queen  of  eastern  spring, 
O'er  emerald  meadows  of  Kashmeer 
Invites  the  young  pursuer  near, 
And  leads  him  on  from  flower  to  flower 
A  weary  chase  and  wasted  hour  ; 
Then  leaves  him,  as  it  soars  on  high, 
With  panting  heart  and  tearful  eye : 
So  beauty  lures  the  full-grown  child, 
With  hue  as  bright,  and  wing  as  wild ; 
A  chase  of  idle  hopes  and  fears, 
Begun  in  folly,  closed  in  tears. 
If  won,  to  equal  ills  betray'd, 
Wo  waits  the  insect  and  the  maid, 
A  life  of  pain,  the  loss  of  peace, 
From  infant's  play,  and  man's  caprice : 
The  lovely  toy  so  fiercely  sought 
Hath  lost  its  charm  by  being  caught. 
For  every  touch  that  wooed  its  stay 
Hath  brush'd  its  brightest  hues  away  : 
Till,  charm,  and  hue,  and  beauty  gone, 
Tis  left  to  fly  or  fall  alone. 
With  wounded  wing,  or  bleeding  breast, 
Ah  !  where  shall  either  victim  restl 
Can  this  with  faded  pinion  soar 
From  rose  to  tulip  as  before  1 
Or  beauty,  blighted  in  an  hour, 
Find  joy  within  her  broken  bower  1 
No  !  gayer  insects  fluttering  by 
NeVr  droop  the  wing  o'er  those  that  die  ; 
And  lovelier  things  have  mercy  shown 
To  every  failing  but  their  own  ; 
And  every  wo  a  tear  can  claim 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

SHE  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half-impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


TO  MARY. 

WELL  !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too ; 

For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband's  bless'd — and  'twill  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot : 

But  let  them  pass — Oh !   how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  not ! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favourite  child, 
I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break, 

But  when  th'  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it  for  its  mother's  sake. 

I  kiss'd  it,  and  repress'd  my  sighs, 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see  ; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 

And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu  !  I  must  away  : 

While  thou  art  blest  I  '11  not  repine, 

But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay  ; 

My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 

I  deem'd  that  time,  I  deem'd  that  pride 
Had  quench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame, 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 
My  heart  in  all,  save  hope,  the  same. 

Yet  was  I  calm :  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast  would  thrill  before  thy  look ; 

But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime — 
We  met,  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 

Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there  ; 

One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace, 
The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

Away  !  away  !  my  early  dream, 
Remembrance  never  must  awake  : 

Oh  !  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream  1 
My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break. 


236 


LORD    BYRON. 


OH!  SNATCHED  AWAY  IN  BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 

OH  !  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom, 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb ! 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year  ; 
And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom  : 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread ; 
Fond  wretch !  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead ! 

Away  !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress  : 

Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  1 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  ] 

And  thou — who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 


MANFRED  TO  THE  SORCERESS. 

FBOM:  my  youth  upwards 

My  spirit  walk'd  not  with  the  souls  of  men, 

Nor  look'd  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes ; 

The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine ; 

The  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine ; 

My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 

Made  me  a  stranger ;  though  I  wore  the  form, 

I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh, 

For  midst  the  creatures  of  clay  that  girded  me 

Was  there  but  one  who but  of  her  anon. 

I  said,  with  men,  and  with  the  thoughts  of  men, 
I  held  but  slight  communion  ;  but  instead, 
My  joy  was  in  the  wilderness,  to  breathe 
The  difficult  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  top, 
Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's  wing 
Flit  o'er  the  herbless  granite ;  or  to  plunge 
Into  the  torrent,  and  to  roll  along 
On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new  breaking  wave 
Of  river,  stream,  or  ocean  in  their  flow. 
In  these  my  early  strength  exulted ;  or 
To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 
The  stars  and  their  development ;  or  catch 
The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim  ; 
Or  to  look,  listening,  on  the  scatter'd  leaves, 
While  autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  song. 
These  were  my  pastimes,  and  to  be  alone ; 
For  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one, — 
Hating  to  be  so, — cross'd  me  in  my  path, 
I  felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them, 
And  was  all  clay  again.     And  then  I  dived, 
In  my  lone  wanderings,  to  the  caves  of  death, 
Searching  its  cause  in  its  effect;  and  drew 
From  wither'd  bones,  and  skulls,  and  heap'd-up  dust, 
Conclusions  most  forbidden.     Then  I  pass'd 
The  nights  of  years  in  sciences  untaught, 
Save  in  the  old  time ;  and  with  time  and  toil, 
And  terrible  ordeal,  and  such  penance 


As  in  itself  hath  power  upon  the  air, 

And  spirits  that  do  compass  air  and  earth, 

Space,  and  the  people  infinite,  I  made 

Mine  eyes  familiar  with  eternity, 

Such  as,  before  me,  did  the  Magi,  and 

He  who  from  out  their  fountain  dwellings  raised 

Eros  and  Anteros,  at  Gadara, 

As  I  do  thee ; — and  with  my  knowledge  grew 

The  thirst  of  knowledge,  and  the  power  and  joy 

Of  this  most  bright  intelligence. 


ON  THIS  DAY  I  COMPLETE  MY  THIR- 
TY-SIXTH  YEAR.* 

'T  is  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 

Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move  ! 
Yet,  though  I  cannot  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love  ! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle ; 

No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze — 

A  funeral  pile  ! 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus — and  'tis  not  here — 

Such  thoughts  would  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier, 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, 
Glory  and  Greece  around  me  see ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield, 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake  !   (not  Greece — she  is  awake  !) 

Awake,  my  spirit !     Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood  ! — unto  thee 
Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regret'st  thy  youth,  why  live  ? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here : — up  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out — less  often  sought  than  found — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest. 

*  Missolonghi,  Jan.  22,  1824. 


THOMAS    PRINGLE. 


THOMAS  PRINGLE  was  born  on  the  fifth  of 
January,  1787,  at  Blaiklaw,  a  few  miles 
from  Kelso,  in  Scotland,  where  his  father  was 
a  respectable  farmer;  and  his  early  years  were 
passed  amid  the  pastoral  and  secluded  scenery 
of  his  native  country.  An  accident,  by  which 
he  was  made  permanently  lame,  induced  his 
father  to  send  him  to  the  university,  and  at 
eighteen  he  commenced  his  course  at  Edin- 
burgh,'where,  after  the  completion  of  his  edu- 
cation, he  was  for  several  years  engaged  in 
the  office  of  the  Commissioners  of  the  Public 
Records.  Growing  weary  of  his  sedentary  em- 
ployment under  government,  in  conjunction 
with  Mr.  JAMES  CLEGHORN,  he  in  1817  esta- 
blished the  Edinburgh  Monthly  Magazine, 
which  subsequently  falling  into  other  hands, 
was  styled  Blackwood's  Magazine,  and  became 
the  most  famous  periodical  of  its  class  in  the 
world.  An  unwillingness  to  make  the  work 
a  vehicle  of  personal  satire  and  political  con- 
troversy, led  to  disagreements  with  his  pub- 
lisher, and  finally  to  a  transfer  of  his  services 
as  editor  to  Constable's  Edinburgh  Maga- 
zine, by  which  he  became  involved  in  a  literary 
warfare  very  uncongenial  to  his  disposition. 

In  1819,  he  published  "The  Autumnal  Ex- 
cursion and  other  Poems,"  and  having  given 
up  his  engagement  with  Constable,  he  pro- 
ceeded in  the  same  year  to  London,  with  his 
family  and  several  friends,  and  embarked  for 
South  Africa.  There  he  became  engaged  in 
a  contest  with  the  Colonial  Governor,  Lord 
CHARLES  SOMERSET,  which  resulted  in  his  re- 
turn to  England,  where  he  arrived  on  the 
seventh  of  July,  1826. 


By  an  article  in  the  "  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine," then  edited  by  THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  he 
became  known  to  the  managers  of  the  Anti- 
slavery  Society,  who,  in  1827,  engaged  him 
as  their  secretary,  in  which  capacity  he  was 
employed  until  the  extinction  of  slavery  in  the 
British  colonies.  In  the  meantime,  he  was  a 
contributor  to  different  literary  magazines,  and 
for  several  years  was  editor  of  "  Friendship's 
Offering,"  one  of  the  most  popular  of  the  il- 
lustrated annuals.  He  also  wrote  his  "  Afri- 
can Sketches,"  a  series  of  poems  relating  to 
that  continent,  and  a  "  Narrative  of  a  Resi- 
dence in  South  Africa,"  both  of  which  were 
published  by  Moxon.  He  died  on  the  fifth 
of  December,  1834,  of  a  disease  induced  by 
too  earnest  devotion  to  his  various  pursuits, 
and  just  before  his  intended  re-embarkation 
for  Africa,  whither  he  was  going  for  the  res- 
toration of  his  health. 

Some  of  Mr.  PRINGLE'S  poems  are  very 
spirited,  and  nearly  all  of  them  are  smoothly 
and  correctly  versified  ;  but  relating  chiefly  to 
the  traditions  and  manners  of  a  country  of 
which  but  little  is  known  ;  their  peculiar  merit 
is  not  well  appreciated,  even  by  educated 
readers. 

Mr.  PRINGLE  enjoyed  the  friendship  of 
SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  ZACHARY  MACAULAY,  and 
many  other  eminent  authors  and  philanthro- 
pists ;  and  "  although  he  discharged  during 
many  years,  with  a  fearless  and  honest  zeal, 
the  duties  of  an  office  which  exposed  him  to 
the  bitterness  of  party  spirit,  no  man,  perhaps, 
had  ever  fewer  enemies,  or  descended  into  the 
grave  with  fewer  animosities." 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 

AFAR  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side: 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  cling  to  the  past: 
When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears, 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years  ; 
And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled 
Flit  over  the  brain,  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  : 


Bright  visions  of  glory — that  vanish'd  too  soon  ; 
Day-dreams — that  departed  ere  manhood's  noon ; 
Attachments — by  fate  or  by  falsehood  reft; 
Companions  of  early  days — lost  or  left ; 
And  my  native  land — whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame ; 
The  home  of  my  childhood ;  the  haunts  of  my  prime; 
All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time 
When  the  feelings  were  young  and  the  world  was 

new, 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to  view ; 

237 


238 


THOMAS    PRIN'GLE. 


All — all  now  forsaken — forgotten — foregone  ! 

And  I — a  lone  exile  remember'd  of  none — 

My  high  aims  abandon'd, — my  good  acts  undone, — 

Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun, — 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger  may 

scan, 
I  fly  to  the  desert  afar  from  man ! 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side: 
When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 
With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and  strife : 
The  proud  man's  frown,  and  the  base  man's  fear, — 
The  scorner's  laugh,  and  the  sufferer's  tear, — 
And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and  folly, 
Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy  ; 
When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are  high, 
Arid  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman's  sigh — 
Oh  !  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride, 
Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride  ! 
There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 
And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed, 
With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand — 
The  only  law  of  the  desert  land  ! 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side : 
Away — away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 
By  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  buffalo's  glen  ; 
By  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 
Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle, and  the  hartebeest  graze, 
And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forests  o'erhung  with  wild-vine ; 
Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood, 
And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood, 
And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  fen  where  the  wild-ass  is  drinking  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side  : 
O'er  the  brown  Karroo,  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively  ; 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  shrill  whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray  ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain  ; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 
Hying  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scoop'd  their  nest, 
Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parch'd  Karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side : 
Away — away — in  the  wilderness  vast, 
Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath  never  pass'd, 
And  the  quiver'd  Coranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  cross'd  with  his  roving  clan : 
A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 
Which  man  hath  abandon'd  from  famine  and  fear ; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone, 
With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning  stone ; 
Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 
Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 
And  the  bitter-melon,  for  food  and  drink, 
Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt  lake's  brink : 
A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides ; 


Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 
Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 
Appears,  to  refresh  the  aching  eye: 
But  the  barren  earth,  and  the  burning  sky, 
And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 
Spread — void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night-winds  round  me  sigh, 
And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 
As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone, 
Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave  alone, 
"A  still  small  voice"  comes  through  the  wild 
(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child,) 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear, — 
Saying — MAN  is  DISTANT,  BUT  GOD  is  NEAR  ! 


THE  BECHUANA  BOY. 

I  SAT  at  noontide  in  my  tent, 

And  look'd  across  the  desert  dun, 
That  'neath  the  cloudless  firmament 

Lay  gleaming  in  the  sun, 
When  from  the  bosom  of  the  waste 
A  swarthy  stripling  came  in  haste, 
With  foot  unshod  and  naked  limb, 
And  a  tame  springbok  following  him. 

He  came  with  open  aspect  bland, 

And  modestly  before  me  stood, 
Caressing  with  a  kindly  hand 

That  fawn  of  gentle  brood  ; 
Then,  meekly  gazing  in  my  face, 
Said  in  the  language  of  his  race, 
With  smiling  look,  yet  pensive  tone, 
"Stranger,  I'm  in  the  world  alone!" 

"  Poor  boy,"  I  said,  «  thy  kindred's  home, 
Beyond  far  Stormberg's  ridges  blue, 

Why  hast  thou  left  so  young,  to  roam 
This  desolate  Karroo  1" 

The  smile  forsook  him  while  I  spoke ; 

And  when  again  he  silence  broke, 

It  was  with  many  a  stifled  sigh 

He  told  this  strange,  sad  history. 

"  I  have  no  kindred  !"  said  the  boy  : 
"  The  Bergenaars,  by  night  they  came, 

And  raised  their  murder-shout  of  joy, 
While  o'er  our  huts  the  flame 

Rush'd  like  a  torrent ;  and  their  yell 

Peal'd  louder  as  our  warriors  fell 

In  helpless  heaps  beneath  their  shot, 

One  living  man  they  left  us  not ! 

"  The  slaughter  o'er,  they  gave  the  slain 
To  feast  the  foul-beak'd  birds  of  prey  ; 
And  with  our  herds  across  the  plain 

They  hurried  us  away — 
The  widow'd  mothers  and  their  brood : 
Oft,  in  despair,  for  drink  and  food 
We  vainly  cried,  they  heeded  not, 
But  with  sharp  lash  the  captives  smote. 

"  Three  days  we  track'd  that  dreary  wild, 
Where  thirst  and  anguish  press'd  us  sore ; 

And  many  a  mother  and  her  child 
Lay  down  to  rise  no  more : 


THOMAS    PRINGLE. 


239 


Behind  us,  on  the  desert  brown, 
We  saw  the  vultures  swooping  down  ; 
And  heard,  as  the  grim  light  was  falling, 
The  gorged  wolf  to  his  comrade  calling. 

"  At  length  was  heard  a  river  sounding 

Midst  that  dry  and  dismal  land, 
And,  like  a  troop  of  wild  deer  bounding, 

We  hurried  to  its  strand  ; 
Among  the  madden'd  cattle  rushing, 
The  crowd  behind  still  forward  pushing, 
Till  in  the  flood  our  limbs  were  drench'd 
And  the  fierce  rage  of  thirst  was  quench'd. 

"  Hoarse-roaring,  dark,  the  broad  Gareep 

In  turbid  streams  was  sweeping  fast, 
Huge  sea-cows  in  its  eddies  deep 

Loud  snorting  as  we  pass'd  ; 
But  that  relentless  robber  clan 
Right  through  those  waters  wild  and  wan 
Drove  on  like  sheep  our  captive  host, 
Nor  staid  to  rescue  wretches  lost. 

"  All  shivering  from  the  foaming  flood, 

We  stood  upon  the  stranger's  ground, 
When,  with  proud  looks  and  gestures  rude, 

The  white  men  gather'd  round  : 
And  there,  like  cattle  from  the  fold, 
By  Christians  we  were  bought  and  sold, — 
Midst  laughter  loud  and  looks  of  scorn, — 
And  roughly  from  each  other  torn. 

"  My  mother's  scream  so  long  and  shrill, 

My  little  sister's  wailing  cry, 
(In  dreams  I  often  hear  them  still !) 

Rose  wildly  to  the  sky. 
A  tiger's  heart  came  to  me  then, 
And  madly  'mong  those  ruthless  men 
I  sprang  ! — Alas  !  dash'd  on  the  sand, 
Bleeding,  they  bound  me  foot  and  hand. 

"Away — away  on  bounding  steeds 
The  white  man-stealers  fleetly  go, 

Through  long,  low  valleys,  fringed  with  reeds, 
O'er  mountains  capp'd  with  snow, — 

Each  with  his  captive,  far  and  fast ; 

Until  yon  rock-bound  ridge  was  pass'd, 

And  distant  stripes  of  cultured  soil 

Bespoke  the  land  of  tears  and  toil. 

"And  tears  and  toil  have  been  my  lot 

Since  I  the  white  man's  thrall  became, 
And  sorer  griefs  I  wish  forgot — 

Harsh  blows  and  scorn  and  shame. 
Oh,  English  chief!  thou  ne'er  canst  know 
The  injured  bondman's  bitter  wo, 
When  round  his  heart,  like  scorpions,  cling 
Black  thoughts,  that  madden  while  they  sting ! 

"Yet  this  hard  fate  I  might  have  borne, 
And  taught  in  time  my  soul  to  bencf, 


Had  my  sad  yearning  breast  forlorn 

But  found  a  single  friend  : 
My  race  extinct  or  far  removed, 
The  boor's  rough  brood  I  could  have  loved — 
But  each  to  whom  my  bosom  turn'd 
Even  like  a  hound  the  black  boy  spurn'd ! 

"  While,  friendless  thus,  my  master's  flocks 

I  tended  on  the  upland  waste, 
It  chanced  this  fawn  leapt  from  the  rocks, 

By  wolfish  wild-dogs  chased  : 
I  rescued  it,  though  wounded  sore, 
All  dabbled  with  its  mother's  gore, 
And  nursed  it  in  a  cavern  wild 
Until  it  loved  me  like  a  child. 

"  Gently  I  nursed  it ;  for  I  thought 

(Its  hapless  fate  so  like  to  mine) 
By  good  Utiko  it  was  brought, 

To  bid  me  not  repine — 
Since  in  this  world  of  wrong  and  ill 
One  creature  lived  to  love  me  still, 
Although  its  dark  and  dazzling  eye 
Beam'd  not  with  human  sympathy. 

"Thus  lived  I,  a  lone  orphan  lad, 

My  task  the  proud  Boor's  flocks  to  tend  ; 
And  this  poor  fawn  was  all  I  had 

To  love,  or  call  my  friend ; 
When  suddenly,  with  haughty  look 
And  taunting  words,  that  tyrant  took 
My  playmate  for  his  pamper'd  boy, 
Who  envied  me  my  only  joy. 

"  High  swell'd  my  heart! — But  when  the  star 

Of  midnight  gleam'd,  I  softly  led 
My  bounding  favourite  forth,  and  far 

Into  the  desert  fled. 
And  here,  from  human  kind  exiled, 
Three  moons  on  roots  and  berries  wild 
I've  fared;  and  braved  the  beasts  of  prey, 
To  escape  from  spoilers  worse  than  they. 

"But  yester  morn  a  Bushman  brought 

The  tidings  that  thy  tents  were  near; 
And  now  with  hasty  foot  I've  sought 

Thy  presence,  void  of  fear  ; 
Because  they  say,  O  English  chief, 
Thou  scornest  not  the  captive's  grief: 
Then  let  me  serve  thee,  as  thine  own — 
For  I  am  in  the  world  alone !" 

Such  was  Marossi's  touching  tale. 

Our  breasts  they  were  not  made  of  stone  : 
His  words,  his  winning  looks  prevail — 

We  took  him  for  "  our  own." 
And  one,  with  woman's  gentle  art, 
Unlock'd  the  fountains  of  his  heart ; 
And  love  gush'd  forth — till  he  became 
Her  child  in  every  thing  but  name. 


WILLIAM    PETER. 


WILLIAM  PETER,  the  descendant  of  a  family 
which  has  flourished  for  many  centuries  in 
the  west  of  England,*  was  born  in  Cornwall, 
educated  at  Christ-Church,  Oxford,  and  stu- 
died law  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  After  a  few  years' 
residence  in  London,  he  returned  to  his  native 
shire,  settling  down  at  the  seat  of  his  fore- 
fathers, and  dividing  his  time  between  literary 
and  domestic  pleasures  and  the  discharge  of 
those  magisterial  and  other  duties  attached  to 
the  life  of  an  English  country  gentleman. 
Being  a  zealous  whig,  however,  of  the  Somers 
and  Fox  school,  he  was,  at  length,  induced  to 
enter  the  House  of  Commons,  where,  during 
the  few  years  that  he  continued  a  member  of 
that  body,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  contri- 
buting by  his  votes  to  the  final  triumph  of 
many  of  those  great  principles  and  measures, 


in  the  successful  advocacy  of  which  he  had, 
by  his  speeches  and  writings,  long  borne  a 
leading  part  in  his  native  county.  Since  his 
withdrawal  from  Parliament,  he  has  spent 
two  or  three  years  in  visiting  different  coun- 
tries of  Europe,  and  is  now  Her  Britannic 
Majesty's  Consul  for  the  State  of  Pennsylvania. 
Mr.  PETER'S  poetical  works  consist  of 
translations  from  the  German  and  Italian,* 
scriptural  paraphrases,  and  original  pieces. 
His  translations  are  remarkable  for  their  ele- 
gance and  fidelity,  and  all  his  productions 
for  a  most  scholarly  elaboration  and  finish. 
He  is  also  the  author  of  a  "  Memoir  of  Sir 
Samuel  Romilly,"  as  well  as  of  several  tracts, 
chiefly  political,  and  in  support  of  the  princi- 
ples and  party  to  which  he  has  been  through- 
out life  attached. 


DAMON   AND   PYTHIAS.t 

Non  certes  ;  la  Vie  n'est  pas  si  aride  que  1'Egoisme 
nous  1'a  faite  ;  tout  n'y  est  pas  prudence,  tout  n'y  est 
pas  calcul. — Mad.  de  Sta'el. 

"HERE,  guards!"  pale  with  fears Dionysius cries, 

"  Here,  guards,  yon  intruder  arrest ! 
'T  is  Damon — but  hah  !    speak,  what  means  this 

disguise  1 

And  the  dagger,  which  gleams  in  thy  vest?" 
«  'T  was  to  free,"  says  the  youth,  "  this  dear  land 

from  its  chains  !" 

"  Free  the  land  !    wretched  fool,  thou  shall  die  for 
thy  pains." 

"  I  am  ready  to  die — I  ask  not  to  live — 

Yet  three  days  of  respite,  perhaps,  thou  may'st  give, 

For  to-morrow,  my  sister  will  wed,  [there ; 

And  't  would  damp  all  her  joy,  were  her  brother  not 
Then  let  me,  I  pray,  to  her  nuptials  repair, 

Whilst  a  friend  remains  here  in  my  stead." 

With  a  sneer  on  his  brow,  and  a  curse  in  his  breast, 
"  Thou  shalt  have,"  cries  the  tyrant,  "  shalt  have 
thy  request ; 

To  thy  sister's  repair,  on  her  nuptials  attend, 
Enjoy  thy  three  days,  but — mark  well  what  I  say — 
Return  on  the  third ;  if,  beyond  that  fix'd  day, 
There  be  hut  one  hour's,  but  one  moment's  delay, 

That  delay  shall  be  death  to  thy  friend  !" 

*  Burke's  "  Commoners  of  England." 

I  This  an  imitation  or  free  version  of  Schiller's 
"  Bur2sc,haft." — For  the  origin  of  the  story,  see  Valerius 
Maximus,  1.  iv.  c.  7.  de  Amicitia;  Cic.  Off.  I.  iii.  c.  10; 
and  Lactant.  1.  v.  c.  17.  Pythias  is  called  Phintias  by 
Valerius  Maximus  and  Cicero. 


Then  to  Pythias  he  went ;  and  he  told  him  his  case  ; 
That  true  friend  answer'd  not,  but,  with  instant 

embrace 
Consenting,  rush'd  forth  to  be  bound  in  his 

room  ; 

And  now,  as  if  wing'd  with  new  life  from  above, 
To  his  sister  he  flew,  did  his  errand  of  love, 
And,  ere  a  third  morning  had  brighten'd  the  grove, 
Was  returning  with  joy  to  his  doom. 

But  the  heavens  interpose, 

Stern  the  tempest  arose, 
And,  when  the  poor  pilgrim  arrived  at  the  shore, 

Swoll'n  to  torrents,  the  rills 

Rush'd  in  foam  from  the  hills, 
And  crash  went  the  bridge  in  the  whirlpool's  wild 


Wildly  gazing,  despairing,  half  phrensied  he  stood  ; 
Dark,  dark  were  the  skies,  arid  dark  was  the  flood, 

And  still  darker  his  lorn  heart's  emotion  ; 
And  he  shouted  for  aid,  but  no  aid  was  at  hand, 
No  boat  ventured  forth  from  the  surf-ridden  strand, 
And  the  waves  sprang,  like  woods,  o'er  the  lessen- 
ing land, 

And  the  stream  was  becoming  an  ocean. 

Now  with  knees  low  to  earth  and  with  hands  to 

the  skies, 
«  Still  the  storm,  God  of  might,  God  of  mercy  !"  he 


*  Amonffst  these  are  Schiller's  "  William  Tell,"  "  Mary 
Stuart,"  the  "Maid  of  Orleans,"  "  Battle  with  the  Dra- 
gon ;"  Manzoni's  "Fifth  of  May,"  &c.,&c. 


WILLIAM    PETER. 


241 


"  Oh  hush  with  thy  breath  this  loud  sea ; 
The  hours  hurry  by  :  the  sun  glows  on  high  ; 
And  should  he  go  down,  and  I  reach  not  yon  town, 

My  friend — he  must  perish  for  me  !" 

Yet  the  wrath  of  the  torrent  still  went  on  increasing, 
And  waves  upon  waves  still  dissolved  without 

ceasing, 

And  hour  after  hour  hurried  on; 
Then,  by  anguish  impell'd,  hope  and  fear  alike  o'er, 
He,  reckless,  rush'd  into  the  water's  deep  roar ; 
Rose,    sunk,    struggled   on,    till,    at    length,   the 

wish'd  shore, — 
Thanks  to  Heaven's  outstretch'd  hand — it  is 

won ! — 

But  new  perils  await  him  :  scarce  'scaped  from  the 

flood, 

And  intent  on  redeeming  each  moment's  delay, 
As  onward  he  sped,  lo  !  from  out  a  dark  wood, 

A  band  of  fierce  robbers  encompass'd  his  way. 
"What  would   ye!"    he  cried,  "save  my  life  I 

have  naught ; 

Nay,  that  is  the  king's" — Then  swift,  having  caught 
A  club  from  the  nearest,  and  swinging  it  round 
With  might  more  than  man's,  he  laid  three  on  the 

ground, 
Whilst  the  rest  hurried  off  in  dismay. 

But  the  noon's  scorching  flame 

Soon  shoots  through  his  frame, 
And   he   turns,  faint   and  way-worn,  to  heaven 
with  a  sigh — 

"  From  the  flood  and  the  foe 

Thou  'st  redeem'd  me,  and  oh  ! 
Thus,  by  thirst  overcome,  must  I  effortless  lie, 
And  leave  him,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  to  die  !" 

Scarce  utter'd  the  word, 

When  startled  he  heard 
Purling  sounds,  sweet  as  silver's,  fall  fresh  on  his  ear; 

And  low  a  small  rill 

Trickled  down  from  the  hill ! 
He  heard  and  he  saw,  and,  with  joy  drawing  near, 
Laved  his  limbs,  slaked  his  thirst,  and  renew'd  his 
career. 

And  now  the  sun's  beams  through  the  deep  boughs 

are  glowing, 
And  rock,  tree,  and  mountain  their  shadows  are 

throwing, 

Huge  and  grim,  o'er  the  meadow's  bright  bloom  ; 
And  two  travellers  are  seen  coming  forth  on  their 

way, 

And,  just  as  they  pass,  he  hears  one  of  them  say — 
"  'T  is  the  hour  that  was  fix'd  for  his  doom." 

Still,  anguish  gives  strength  to  his  wavering  flight ; 
On  he  speeds;  and  lo  now  !  in  eve's  reddening  light 

The  domes  of  far  Syracuse  blend  ; —  [gray 
There  Philostratus  meets  him,  (a  servant  grown 
In  his  house,)  crying:  "Back!  not  a  moment's 
delay  ; 

No  cares  will  avail  for  thy  friend. 

"  No ;  nothing  can  save  his  dear  head  from  the  tomb ; 

So  think  of  preserving  thine  own. 
Myself,  I  beheld  him  led  forth  to  his  doom ; 

Ere  this,  his  brave  spirit  has  flown. 
31 


With  confident  soul  he  stood,  hour  after  hour, 

Thy  return  never  doubting  to  see ; 
No  sneers  of  the  tyrant  that  faith  could  o'erpower 

Or  shake  his  assurance  in  thee  !" 

"  And  is  it  too  late  1  and  cannot  I  save      [grave  ! 
His  dear  life?   then,  at  least,  let  me  share  in  his 
Yes,  death  shall  unite  us !    no  tyrant  shall  say, 
That  friend  to  his  friend  proved  untrue  ;    he  may 

slay, 

May  torture,  may  mock  at  all  mercy  and  ruth, 
B  ut  ne'er  shall  he  doubt  of  our  friendship  and  truth." 

'Tis  sunset;  and  Damon  arrives  at  the  gate, 
Sees  the  scaffold  and  multitudes  gazing  below  ; 

Already  the  victim  is  bared  for  his  fate, 

Already  the  deathsman  stands  arm'd  for  the  blow ; 

When  hark  !  a  wild  voice,  which  is  echo'd  around, 

"  Stay  ! — 'tis  I — it  is  Damon,  for  whom  he  was 
bound  !" 

And  now  they  sink  into  each  other's  embrace, 
And  are  weeping  for  joy  and  despair.        [case ; 

Not  a  soul,  amongst  thousands,  but  melts  at  their 
Which  swift  to  the  monarch  they  bear; 

Even  he,  too,  is  moved — feels  for  once  as  he  ought — 

And  commands,  that  they  both  to  his  throne  shall 
be  brought. 

Then, — alternately  gazing  on  each  gallant  yotith 

With  looks  of  awe,  wonder,  and  shame — 
"  Ye  have  conquer'd,"  he  cries.    "  Yes,  I  see  now 
that  truth, 

That  friendship,  is  not  a  mere  name. 
Go:    you're  free;  but,  whilst  life's  dearest  bless- 
ings you  prove, 

Let  one  prayer  of  your  monarch  be  heard, 
That — his  past  sins  forgot — in  this  union  of  love 

And  of  virtue — you  make  him  the  third." 


THECKLA. 

Die  Bhime  ist  hinweg  aus  meinem  Leben, 
Und  kalt  und  farblos  seh'  ich'svor  mir  liegen. 

THE  clouds  gather  fast,  the  oak  forests  moan, 

A  maiden  goes  forth  by  the  dark  sea  alone, 

The  wave  on  the  shore  breaks  with  might,  with 

might, 
And  she  mingles  her  sighs  with  gloomy  night, 

Whilst  her  eyes  are  all  tearfully  roving. 
"  My  heart,  it  is  dead,  and  the  world 's  void  and  drear 
And  there's  nothing  to  hope  or  to  live  for  here. 
Thou  Holy  One,  call  back  thy  child  to  her  rest ; 
In  the  pleasure  of  earth  I've  already  been  blest, — 

In  the  pleasure  of  living  and  loving !" 

Vain,  vain  thy  regrets,  vain  the  tears  that  are  shed 
O'er  the  tomb ;  no  complaints  will  awaken  the  dead; 
Yet  oh  !  if  there's  aught  to  the  desolate  heart, 
For  the  lost  light  of  love  can  a  solace  impart, — 

It  will  not  be  denied  thee  by  heaven. 
"  Let  the  soul  then  sigh  on,  its  tears  gently  fall ; 
Though  life,  love,  and  rapture,  they  cannot  recall, 
Yet  the  sweetest  of  balms  to  the  desolate  breast, 
For  the  lost  love  of  Him,  whom  on  earth  it  loved 
best,— 

Are  the  pangs  to  his  memory  given." 
X 


242 


WILLIAM    PETER. 


THE  IDEAL.* 

Perfida  sed,  quamvis  perfida,  chara  tamen. 

THOU,  and  wilt  thou  for  ever  leave  me 

With  thy  bright  smiles,  with  thy  sweet  sighs, 
And  didst  thou  come  but  to  deceive  me, 

With  all  thy  tender  phantasies  ! 
Can  naught  detain,  naught  overcome  thee, 

O  golden  season  of  life's  glee  1 
jj   In  vain  !     Tiiy  waves  are  sweeping  from  me 

Into  eternity's  dark  sea. 

The  sun-smiles,  the  fresh  blooms  have  perish'd, 

That  bright  around  my  morntide  shone, 
And  all  within  this  heart  most  cherish'd, 

Life's  sweet  Ideal — all  is  gone. 
The  fairy  visions,  the  gay  creatures, 

To  which  my  trusting  soul  gave  birth, 
Stern  reason  dims  their  angel-features, 

And  heaven  is  lost  in  clouds  of  earth. 

As  erst,  with  fiercest,  tenderest  anguish 

Pygmalion  clasp'd  the  senseless  stone, 
And  taught  the  death-cold  breast  to  languish 

With  blood,  pulse,  transports,  as  his  own  ; 
Thus  I,  around  my  heart's  dear  treasure, 

Round  nature,  twined  my  wooing  arms, 
Till,  giving  back  the  throb  of  pleasure, 

She  glow'd, — alive  in  all  her  charms. 

Then,  then  with  mutual  instinct  burning, 

The  dumb  caught  raptures  from  my  tongue, 
And,  kiss  with  sweetest  kiss  returning, 

Responsive  to  her  minstrel  rung : 
With  falls  more  musical  the  fountain, 

With  brighter  hues,  tree,  flower  were  rife, 
The  soulless  breath'd  from  lake  and  mountain, 

And  all  was  echo  of  my  life. 

My  bark,  with  wider  sails  unmooring 

Stretch'd  boldly  forth  o'er  depths  unknown, 
With  eager  prow  life's  coasts  exploring, 

Her  realms  of  thought,  sight,  feeling,  tone. 
How  vast  the  world  then,  how  elysian 

Its  prospects,  in  dim  distance  seen  ! 
How  faded  now, — on  nearer  vision 

How  small, — and  oh  !  that  small,  how  mean  ! 

With  soul,  by  worldling  care  unblighted, 

With  brow,  unblench'd  by  fear  or  shame, 
How  sprang — on  wings  of  hope  delighted — 

Young  manhood  to  the  lists  of  fame  ! 
Far,  far  beyond  earth's  cold  dominions, 

High,  high  as  light's  exultant  sphere, 
No  realms  too  distant  for  his  pinions, 

No  worlds  too  bright  for  his  career. 

How  swift  the  car  of  rapture  bore  him, 

(No  toils  seem'd  hard,  no  wishes  vain.) 
How  light,  how  gladsome,  danced  before  him 

Imagination's  sparkling  train  ! 
High  Truth,  in  sun-bright  morion  glancing, 

Young  Glory,  with  his  laurell'd  sword, 
Fortune,  on  golden  wheels  advancing, 

And  true  Love,  with  its  sweet  reward. 

*  A  free  version  of  Schiller's   "  Die  Ideale." 


But  ah  !  as  ocean's  breast,  unsteady, 

These  visions  fade,  these  joys  decay, 
And,  faithless,  from  my  path  already, 

Friend  after  friend,  they  've  dropp'd  away. 
False  Fortune  hails  some  happier  master, 

The  thirst  of  Lore  survives  my  youth, 
But  doubt's  chill  clouds  are  gathering  faster 

Around  the  sunny  form  of  Truth. 

I  saw  the  holy  crown  of  Glory 

Polluted  on  the  vulgar  brow  ; 
And  Love — ah,  why  so  transitory  ! 

E'en  Love's  sweet  flowers  are  withering  now  ; 
And  dimmer  all  around,  and  dimmer, 

Fades  on  the  sense  life's  west' ring  ray, 
Till  Hope  herself  scarce  leaves  a  glimmer 

To  light  the  pilgrim  on  his  way. 

Of  all, — the  crowd, — that  once  were  near  me, 

To  court,  soothe,  flatter,  shout,  carouse, 
Who  now  is  left '!      Who  comes  to  cheer  me, 

Or  follow  to  my  last  dark  house  1 
Thou,  Friendship  !  gentlest  nurse,  that  bearest 

Balm  for  all  wounds,  all  woes  around, 
Who,  patient,  every  burden  sharest — 

Mine  earliest  sought  and  latest  found. 

And  thou,  with  Friendship  still  uniting, 

Exorcist  of  the  stormy  soul, 
Employment,  all  its  powers  exciting, 

Though  weakening  none,  by  thy  control ! 
Who,  grain  on  grain,  with  fond  endeavour, 

Add'st  to  eternity's  vast  day, 
Yet  from  Time's  debt,  unwearied  ever, 

Art  striking  weeks,  months,  years,  away. 


CHRISTIAN  LOVE. 

THOUGH  Cowper's  zeal,  though  Milton's  fire 

Inspired  my  glowing  tongue  ; 
Though  holier  raptures  woke  my  lyre, 

Than  ever  Seraph  sung  ; 
Though  faith,  though  knowledge  from  above 

Mine  ardent  labours  crown'd  ; 
Did  I  not  glow  with  Christian  love, 

'T  were  all  but  empty  sound. 

Love  suffers  long;  is  just,  sincere, 

Forgiving,  slow  to  blame  ; 
Friend  of  the  good,  she  grieves  to  hear 

An  erring  brother's  shame. 
Meek,  holy,  free  from  selfish  zeal, 

To  generous  pity  prone, 
She  envies  not  another's  weal, 

Nor  triumphs  in  her  own. 

No  evil,  no  suspicious  thought 

She  harbours  in  her  breast ; 
She  tries  us  by  the  deeds  we've  wrought, 

And  still  believes  the  best. 
Love  never  fails;  though  knowledge  cease, 

Though  prophecies  decay, 
Love,  Christian  love,  shall  still  increase, 

Shall  still  extend  her  sway. 


WILLIAM    PETER. 


243 


THE  PENITENT. 

WITH  guilt  and  shame  opprest, 

Where  shall  I  turn  for  rest, 
Where  look  for  timely  succour  from  despair  1 

I  try  the  world  in  vain. 

I  court  earth's  fluttering  train, 
But  jind,  alas  !  no  hope,  no  consolation,  there. 

Now  glory's  trumpet-call, 

Now  pleasure's  crowded  hall, 
Now  wealth,  now  grandeur,  every  thought  employs; 

Vain,  weary,  wasted  hours  ! 

E'en  midst  life's  fairest  flowers 
Fell  disappointment  lurks  and  poisons  all  our  joys. 

Then  whither  shall  I  fly  1 

To  Christ,  to  God,  on  high — 
To  Him  lift  up  thy  soul  in  contrite  prayer ! 

He  sees  the  lowly  heart, 

He  will  His  grace  impart, 
And  e'en  to  sinners  yield  a  refuge  from  despair. 


ON  A  DEAR  CHILD. 
"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  God." 

FLOWERS  for  the  loved,  the  lost !     Bring  flowers, 

The  sweetest  of  the  year  ; 
They  charm'd  him  in  life's  happiest  hours, 

And  let  them  strew  his  bier. 

Meet  emblems  of  a  spring,  like  his, 

That  bloom'd  but  to  decay, 
That  stole,  in  dreams  of  gentle  bliss 

And  innocence,  away. 

We  weep,  though  not  in  bitterness, 

Ours  are  not  tears  of  gloom  ; 
No  thoughts,  but  those  of  tenderness, 

Shall  glisten  round  his  tomb. 

No  painful  recollections  rise — 

His  morn — it  dawn'd  so  blest, 
And,  ere  a  cloud  had  dimm'd  its  skies, 

Sweet  lamb,  he  was  at  rest. 

He 's  far  away  !     Yet  still  I  gaze 

Upon  his  smiling  face, 
Still  mark  his  little  winning  ways, 

His  every  infant  grace  : 

I  listen  for  his  airy  tread, 

His  voice  I  turn  to  hear, 
Nor  knew  I,  till  their  sounds  had  fled, 

That  he  was  half  so  dear. 

Each  scene  he  loved, — the  sandy  wild, 

The  rocks,  the  lone-blue  sea, — 
The  birds,  the  flowers,  on  which  he  smiled, — 

Shall  long  be  dear  to  me. 


Oh,  had  I  been  beside  his  bed, 

But  one  saJ  kiss  to  share, 
To  soothe,  perchance,  his  throbbing  head, 

To  hear  his  heart's  meek  prayer. 

To  press  his  little  grateful  hand, 

To  watch  his  patient  breath, 
And  gaze  upon  that  smile,  so  bland, 

So  beautiful,  in  death. 

But  these  are  past.     And  why,  my  child, 

Should  I  lament  thy  doom  1 
Thou  wert  a  plant,  too  rare,  too  mild, 

On  earth's  bleak  wastes  to  bloom. 

Oh,  why  should  we  disturb  thy  bliss, 

(For  such  thy  lot  must  be) 
Why  wish  thee  in  a  world  like  this, 

From  one,  that 's  worthy  thee  ] 


TWYDEE. 

Go,  roam  througn  this  isle  ;  view  her  oak-bosom'd 

towers, 
View  the   scenes   which   her  Stowes  and  her 

Blenheims  impart ; 
See  lawns,  where  proud  wealth  has  exhausted  its 

powers, 

And  nature  is  lost  in  the  mazes  of  art ; 
Far  fairer  to  me 
Are  the  shades  of  Tvvydee, 

With  her  rocks,  and  her    floods,  and  her  wild- 
blossom'd  bowers. 

Here  mountain  on  mountain  exultingly  throws 
Through  storm,  mist,  and  snow,  its  bleak  crags 

to  the  sky ; 

In  their  shadow  the  sweets  of  the  valley  repose, 
While  streams,  gay  with  verdure  and  sunshine, 
steal  by  ; 

Here  bright  hollies  bloom 
Through  the  steep  thicket's  gloom, 
And  the  rocks  wave  with  woodbine,  and  hawthorn, 
and  rose. 

'Tis  eve  ;  and  the  sun  faintly  glows  in  the  west, 
But  thy  flowers,  fading  Skyrrid,  are  fragrant  with 

dew, 

And  the  Usk,  like  a  spangle  in  nature's  dark  vest, 
Breaks,  in  gleams  of  far  moonlight,  more  soft  on 
the  view ; 

By  valley  and  hill 
All  is  lovely  and  still, 
And  we  linger,  as  lost,  in  some  isle  of  the  blest. 

Oh,  how  happy  the  man  who,from  fashion's  cold  ray, 
Flies  to  shades,  sweet  as  these,  with  the  one  he 

loves  best ! 

With  the  smiles  of  affection  to  gladden  their  day, 
And  the  nightingale's  vespers  to  lull  them  to  rest; 
While  the  torments  of  life, 
Its  ambition  and  strife, 
Pass,  like  storms  heard  at  distance,  unheeded  away. 


RANN    KENNEDY. 


MR.  KENNEDY  is  a  clergyman  of  the  Esta- 
blished Church,  holding  an  important  station 
in  Birmingham,  where  his  high  intellectual 
qualities  and  deep  earnestness  of  feeling  at- 
tach to  him  the  hearts  of  all  who  know  him. 
He  has  been  already  introduced  to  American 
readers,  by  WASHINGTON  IRVING'S  happy  quo- 
tations from  some  of  his  poems  in  the  "  Sketch 
Book."  Mr.  KENNEDY  also  wrote  and  pub- 
lished, in  1837,  a  "  Tribute  in  Verse  to  the 


Character  of  the  late  GEORGE  CANNING  ;"  and 
in  1840,  his  chief  production,  a  volume  from 
the  press  of  Saunders  and  Otley,  embracing 
"  Britain's  Genius ;  a  Mask  on  occasion  of  the 
Marriage  of  Victoria,"  and  a  lyrical  poem, 
"The  Reign  of  Youth."  The  last  illustrates 
the  passions  of  youth  as  they  successively 
arise.  Wonder  is  succeeded  by  Mirth ;  Hope 
arises  in  the  disappointment  of  Imagination, 
and  Love  succeeds  to  Ambition. 


DOMESTIC  BLISS. 

THHOUGH  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall, 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crown'd  with  shade, 
But  chief  from  modest  mansions  numberless, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  sheltering  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  vale,  and  straw-roof 'd  shed, 
Our  Western  Isle  hath  long  been  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling-place ; 
Domestic  bliss,  that,  like  a  harmless  dove, 
(Honour  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard,) 
Can  centre  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  fly  for  through  the  earth  ; 
That  can,  the  world  eluding,  be  itself 
A  world  enjoy'd  ;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  own  sharers,  and  approving  Heaven; 
That,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft, 
Smiles,  though  'tis  looking  only  at  the  sky  ; 
Or,  if  it  dwell  where  cultured  grandeur  shines, 
And  that  which  gives  it  being,  high  and  bright, 
Allures  all  eyes,  yet  its  delight  is  drawn 
From  its  own  attributes  and  powers  of  growth — 
Affections  fair  that  blossom  on  its  stem, 
Kissing  each  other,  and  from  cherish'd  hope 
Of  lovely  shoots,  to  multiply  itself. 


THE  MERRY  BELLS  OF  ENGLAND. 

You  hear,  as  I,  the  merry  bells  of  England  : 
Can  any  country  of  the  same  extent 
Boast  of  so  many  ] — in  their  size  and  tone 
Differing,  yet  all  for  harmonies  combined :    [cities, 
Cluster'd,  in  frequent  bands,  through  towns  and 
Lodgment  they  find  in  many  a  village  tower 
And  tapering  spire,  that  crowns  an  upland  lawn, 
Or  peeps  from  grove  and  dell ;  while  now  and  then, 
Modest  and  low,  a  steeple  ivy-clad, 
Behind  a  rock,  reveals  its  whereabout 
To  the  lone  traveller,  only  by  their  tongue. 
Art's  work  they  are,  yet  in  their  tendency, 
Somewhat  like  nature  to  the  human  soul,     [both ; 
Raised  up  'twixt  earth  and  heaven,  they  speak  of 
They  speak  to  all  of  duty  and  of  hope — 
They  speak  of  sorrow,  and  of  sorrow's  cure. 
'244 


'T  is  happy  for  a  land  and  for  its  people, 
When  the  full  spirits  of  the  young  and  old 
Shall  thus  flow  out  in  artlessness  of  sport. 
Waters,  long  pent,  may  swell  to  monstrous  danger, 
Sullen  and  still,  with  deluge  in  their  power. 
Far  otherwise  't  will  be,  when  timely  vents 
Give  them  to  run  in  many  a  babbling  rill 
Through  vales  or  down  the  rocks,  and  then  disperse, 
Yet  leave  a  green  effect  on  laughing  fields — 
Still  more  and  more  we  hear  those  pealing  bells — 
How  true  in  tone  they  are  ! 

Sweet  bells,  oft  heard,  and  most,  if  their  discourse 
Shall  meet  life's  daily  ear,  act  wholesomely 
Upon  life's  daily  mind. 

AMBITION. 

YET  these  are  but  a  herald  band — 
The  created  chieftain  is  himself  at  hand ; 

These  shall  but  wait 

On  his  heroic  state, 
And  act  at  his  command. 
He  comes ! — Ambition  comes ;  his  way  prepare ! — 

Let  banners  wave  in  air, 
And  loud-voiced  trumpets  his  approach  declare  ! 

He  comes  ! — for  glory  has  before  him  raised 

Her  shield,  with  godlike  deeds  emblazed. 
He  comes,  he  comes ! — for  purposes  sublime 

Dilate  his  soul ;  and  his  exulting  eye 
Beams  like  a  sun,  that,  in  the  vernal  prime, 

With  golden  promise  travels  up  the  sky. 
Onward  looking,  far  and  high, 

While  before  his  champion  pride 

Valleys  rise,  and  hills  subside, 
His  mighty  thoughts,  too  swift  for  lagging  time, 

Through  countless  triumphs  run; 
Each  deed  conceived,  appears  already  done, 

Foes  are  vanquish'd,  fields  are  won. 
E'en  now,  with  wreaths  immortal  crown'd, 

He  marches  to  the  sound 

Of  gratulating  lyres,  [fires. 

And  earth's  applauding  shout  his  generous  bosom 

He  comes,  he  comes  ! — his  way  prepare  ! 
Let  banners  wave  in  air, 

And  loud-voiced  trumpets  his  approach  declare ! 


JOHN    WILSON. 


PROFESSOR  WILSON,  the  "  Christopher 
North"  of  Blackwood,  and  altogether  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  men  of  our  age,  was 
born  at  Paisley,  in  Scotland,  in  May,  1789. 
On  completing  his  preparatory  studies  at  Glas- 
gow, he  entered  Magdalen  College%  Oxford, 
where  he  soon  distinguished  himself,  and  ob- 
tained the  prize  for  English  poetry  against  a 
numerous  and  powerful  competition.  His  edu- 
cation finished,  he  purchased  a  beautiful  estate 
on  the  borders  of  the  Winandermere,  where  he 
resided  until  called  to  the  chair  of  Moral  Philo- 
sophy, in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  in  1820. 

He  had  already  established  on  a  firm  basis 
his  reputation  as  a  poet,  by  the  publication  of 
The  Isle  of  Palms,  written  in  his  eighteenth 
year,  and  a  work  of  still  higher  merit,  The 
City  of  the  Plague,  which  appeared  in  1816. 
The  Isle  of  Palms  is  the  story  of  two  lovers, 
wrecked  on  an  island  of  the  Indian  seas, 
where  they  remain  seven  years,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  they  are  discovered  and  carried 
home  to  England.  It  is  full  of  splendid  de- 
scriptions of  nature  and  of  feeling.  The  City 
of  the  Plague  is  founded  on  the  history  of  the 
great  plague  in  London.  It  is  referred  to  by 
LORD  BYRON  in  the  preface  to  The  Doge  of 
Venice,  as  one  of  the  very  few  evidences  that 
dramatic  power  was  not  then  extinct  in  Eng- 
land. Without  a  doubt  it  is  the  best  of  WIL- 
SON'S poems,  and  one  of  the  first  productions 
of  the  sort  which  the  century  has  furnished. 

WILSON  is  most  successful  as  a  descriptive 
poet.  His  fancy  is  somewhat  too  exuberant, 
his  metaphors  too  profuse  :  but  they  are  from 
life  and  nature,  and  not  from  the  elder  bards. 
He  has  great  delicacy  of  sentiment,  and  some 
of  his  delineations  of  character  are  not  sur- 
passed in  English  poetry.  His  morality  is  never 
hesitating  or  questionable.  In  all  his  works 
there  is  no  sentiment  of  doubtful  application. 

Since  his  election  to  the  Professorship  of 
Philosophy,  WILSON  has  written  little  poetry, 
but  in  his  prose  tales,  The  trials  of  Margaret 
Lindsay,  The  Foresters,  and  the  admirable 
Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,  he  has 
shown  the  genius  of  which  in  an  earlier  period 
his  poetical  writings  gave  assurance.  His 


reputation,  however,  rests  less  upon  these 
works  than  upon  his  contributions  to  Black- 
wood's  Magazine,  of  which  he  has  been  editor 
from  nearly  its  commencement.  His  critical 
and  miscellaneous  essays  in  Blackwood  have 
recently  been  collected  and  published  by  Carey 
and  Hart,  who  have  likewise  issued  an  edition 
of  that  most  remarkable  series  of  papers  that 
ever  appeared  in  any  periodical,  The  Nodes  Am- 
brosianee.  It  is  difficult  to  describe  these  Noctes. 
They  exhibit  a  genius  the  most  versatile  in 
English  literature.  More  than  any  thing  else 
they  gave  the  magazine  its  deserved  reputation 
as  the  first  of  its  class  in  the  world.  It  is  al- 
most unnecessary  to  say,  since  they  have  been 
so  universally  read,  that  The  Noctes  Ambro- 
sianae  purport  to  be  dialogues  between  Chris- 
topher North  (Professor  WILSON,)  The  Shep- 
herd (JAMES  HOGG,)  Sir  Morgan  O'Doherty 
(the  late  Dr.  MAGINN,)  and  other  persons,  on 
subjects  of  popular  interest  in  the  months  pre- 
ceding the  publication  of  the  respective  num- 
bers ;  that  they  abound  in  masterly  criticism 
and  striking  portraitures  of  character ;  that  they 
are  full  of  the  richest  humour,  the  keenest  wit, 
the  most  biting  sarcasm,  the  deepest  pathos, 
and  the  most  profound  philosophy;  amusing  by 
a  playful  dalliance,  and  commanding  attention 
by  high  reflections  on  life  and  death,  the  ter- 
rors of  conscience  and  the  hope  of  immortality. 
The  works  of  Professor  WILSON  reflect  the 
man.  His  colloquial  powers  are  very  great, 
and  he  talks  as  he  writes  with  a  hearty  sin- 
cerity and  originality  that  command  respect 
and  admiration.  He  has  a  sound  heart,  and  a 
body,  like  his  mind,  of  manly  proportions, 
robust,  and  powerful.  Few  are  more  fond  of 
the  sports  of  the  field,  of  the  rod  and  the  gun, 
or  use  them  with  more  skill.  The  mountains 
and  lakes  of  Scotland  are  as  familiar  to  his 
eye  as  is  his  own  estate  on  the  Winander- 
mere. He  still  fills  the  chair  of  Philosophy 
at  Edinburgh,  and  from  all  that  I  have  read, 
or  learned  in  conversation  with  those  who 
know  him,  he  is  about  as  fine  a  specimen  of  a 
man  as  the  times  can  furnish,  all  the  severe 
things  he  has  said  of  our  country  to  the  con- 
trary notwithstanding. 

x  2  245 


246 


JOHN    WILSON. 


TO  A  SLEEPING   CHILD. 

ART  thou  a  thing  of  mortal  birth, 
Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth  ] 
Does  human  blood  with  life  embue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  heavenly  blue, 
That  stray  along  thy  forehead  fair, 
Lost  mid  a  gleam  of  golden  hair  1 
Oh !  can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a  being  doom'd  to  death  ; 
Those  features  to  the  grave  be  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent ; 
Or,  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 
A  phantom  of  a  blessed  dream  1 

A  human  shape  I  feel  thou  art, 
I  feel  it  at  my  beating  heart, 
Those  tremors  both  of  soul  and  sense 
Awoke  by  infant  innocence  ! 
Though  dear  the  forms  by  fancy  wove, 
We  love  them  with  a  transient  love, 
Thoughts  from  the  living  world  intrud 
Even  on  her  deepest  solitude: 
But,  lovely  child  !   thy  magic  stole 
At  once  into  my  inmost  soul, 
With  feelings  as  thy  beauty  fair, 
And  left  no  other  vision  there. 

To  me  thy  parents  are  unknown  ; 
Glad  would  they  be  their  child  to  own  ! 
And  well  they  must  have  loved  before, 
If  since  thy  birth  they  loved  not  more. 
Thou  art  a  branch  of  noble  stem, 
And,  seeing  thee,  I  figure  them. 
What  many  a  childless  one  would  give, 
If  thou  in  their  still  home  wouldst  live  ! 
Though  in  thy  face  no  family  line 
Might  sweetly  say,  «  This  babe  is  mine  !" 
In  time  thou  wouldst  become  the  same 
As  their  own  child, — all  but  the  name  ! 

How  happy  must  thy  parents  be 
Who  daily  live  in  sight  of  thee  ! 
Whose  hearts  no  greater  pleasure  seek 
Than  see  thee  smile,  and  hear  thee  speak, 
And  feel  all  natural  griefs  beguiled 
By  thee,  their  fond,  their  duteous  child. 
What  jay  must  in  their  souls  have  stirr'd 
When  thy  first  broken  words  were  heard, 
Words,  that,  inspired  by  heaven,  expressed 
The  transports  dancing  in  thy  breast ! 
And  for  thy  smile  ! — thy  lip,  cheek,  brow, 
Even  while  I  gaze,  are  kindling  now. 

I  call'd  thee  duteous ;  am  I  wrong  ] 
No  !  truth,  I  feel,  is  in  my  song  : 
Duteous  thy  heart's  still  beatings  move 
To  God,  to  nature,  and  to  love  ! 
To  God  ! — for  thou  a  harmless  child 
Has  kept  his  temple  undefiled  : 
To  nature  ! — for  thy  tears  and  sighs 
Obey  alone  her  mysteries  : 
To  love  ! — for  fiends  of  hate  might  see 
Thou  dwell'st  in  love,  and  love  in  thee ! 
What  wonder  then,  though  in  thy  dreams 
Thy  face  with  mystic  meaning  beams ! 

Oh  !  that  my  spirit's  eye  could  see 
Whence  burst  those  gleams  of  ecstasy  : 
That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 


To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years. 

Thou  smilest  as  if  thy  soul  were  soaring 

To  heaven,  and  heaven's  God  adoring  ! 

And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 

May  bless  an  infant's  sleeping  eye  ] 

What  brighter  throne  can  brightness  find 

To  reign  on  than  an  infant's  mind, 

Ere  sin  destroy,  or  error  dim, 

The  glory  of  the  seraphim  1 

But  now  thy  changing  smiles  express 

Intelligible  happiness. 

I  feel  my  soul  thy  soul  partake. 

What  grief!  if  thou  shouldst  now  awake  ! 

With  infants  happy  as  thyself 

I  see  thee  bound,  a  playful  elf: 

I  see  thou  art  a  darling  child 

Among  thy  playmates,  bold  and  wild. 

They  love  thee  well ;  thou  art  the  queen 

Of  all  their  sports,  in  bower  or  green ; 

And  if  thou  livest  to  woman's  height, 

In  thee  will  friendship,  love,  delight. 
And  live  thou  surely  must ;  thy  life 

Is  far  too  spiritual  for  the  strife 

Of  mortal  pain,  nor  could  disease 

Find  heart  to  prey  on  smiles  like  these. 

Oh  !  thou  wilt  be  an  angel  bright ! 

To  those  thou  lovest,  a  saving  light ! 

The  staff  of  age,  the  help  sublime 

Of  erring  youth,  and  stubborn  prime  ; 

And  when  thou  goest  to  heaven  again, 

Thy  vanishing  be  like  the  strain 

Of  airy  harp,  so  soft  the  tone 

The  ear  scarce  knows  when  it  is  gone ! 
Thrice  blessed  he  !  whose  stars  design 

His  spirit  pure  to  lean  on  thine  ; 

And  watchful  share,  for  days  and  years, 

Thy  sorrows,  joys,  sighs,  smiles,  and  tears  ! 

For  good  and  guiltless  as  thou  art, 

Some  transient  griefs  will  touch  thy  heart, 
Griefs  that  along  thy  alter'd  face 

Will  breathe  a  more  subduing  grace, 

Than  even  those  looks  of  joy  that  lie 

On  the  soft  cheek  of  infancy. 

Though  looks,  God  knows,  are  cradled  there, 

That  guilt  might  cleanse,  or  sooth  despair. 

Oh  !  vision  fair  !  that  I  could  be 
Again,  as  young,  as  pure  as  thee ! 
Vain  wish  !  the  rainbow's  radiant  form 
May  view,  but  cannot  brave  the  storm  ; 
Years  can  bedim  the  gorgeous  dyes 
That  paint  the  bird  of  paradise, 
Arid  years,  so  fate  hath  order'd,  roll 
Clouds  o'er  the  summer  of  the  soul. 
Yet,  sometimes,  sudden  sights  of  grace, 
Such  as  the  gladness  of  thy  face, 
O  sinless  babe  !  by  God  are  given 
To  charm  the  wanderer  back  to  heaven. 

No  common  impulse  hath  me  led 
To  this  green  spot,  thy  quiet  bed, 
Where,  by  mere  gladness  overcome, 
In  sleep  thou  dreamest  of  thy  home. 
When  to  the  lake  I  would  have  gone, 
A  wondrous  beauty  drew  me  on, 
Such  beauty  as  the  spirit  sees 
In  glittering  fields,  and  moveless  trees, 


JOHN    WILSON. 


247 


After  a  warm  and  silent  shower, 
Ere  falls  on  earth  the  twilight  hour. 
What  led  me  hither,  all  can  say, 
Who,  knowing  God,  his  will  obey. 

Thy  slumbers  now  cannot  be  long  : 
Thy  little  dreams  become  too  strong 
For  sleep — too  like  realities  : 
Soon  shall  I  see  those  hidden  eyes  ! 
Thou  wakest,  and,  starting  from  the  ground, 
In  dear  amazement  look'st  around ; 
Like  one  who,  little  given  to  roam, 
Wonders  to  find  herself  from  home  ! 
But  when  a  stranger  meets  thy  view, 
Glistens  thine  eye  with  wilder  hue. 
A  moment's  thought  who  I  may  be, 
Blends  with  thy  smiles  of  courtesy. 

Fair  was  that  face  as  break  of  dawn, 
When  o'er  its  beauty  sleep  was  drawn, 
Like  a  thin  veil  that  half-conceal'd 
The  light  of  soul,  and  half-reveal'd. 
While  thy  hush'd  heart  with  visions  wrought, 
Each  trembling  eye-lash  moved  with  thought, 
And  things  we  dream,  but  ne'er  can  speak, 
Like  clouds  came  floating  o'er  thy  cheek, 
Such  summer-clouds  as  travel  light, 
When  the  soul's  heaven  lies  calm  and  bright ; 
Till  thou  awokest, — then  to  thine  eye 
Thy  whole  heart  leapt  in  ecstasy  ! 

And  lovely  is  that  heart  of  thine, 
Or  sure  these  eyes  could  never  shine 
With  such  a  wild,  yet  bashful  glee, 
Gay,  half-o'ercome  timidity  ! 
Nature  has  breathed  into  thy  face 
A  spirit  of  unconscious  grace  ; 
A  spirit  that  lies  never  still, 
And  makes  thee  joyous  'gainst  thy  will. 
As,  sometimes  o'er  a  sleeping  lake 
Soft  airs  a  gentle  rippling  make. 
Till,  ere  we  know,  the  strangers  fly, 
And  water  blends  again  with  sky. 

O  happy  sprite!   didst  thou  but  know 
What  pleasures  through  my  being  flow 
From  thy  soft  eyes  !   a  holier  feeling 
From  their  blue  light  could  ne'er  be  stealing ; 
But  thou  wouldst  be  more  loth  to  part, 
And  give  me  more  of  that  glad  heart! 
Oh  !  gone  thou  art !   and  bearest  hence 
The  glory  of  thy  innocence. 
But  with  deep  joy  I  breathe  the  air 
That  kiss'd  thy-  cheek,  and  fann'd  thy  hair, 
And  feel,  though  fate  our  lives  must  sever, 
Yet  shall  thy  image  live  for  ever  ! 

THE  THREE  SEASONS  OF  LOVE. 

WITH  laughter  swimming  in  thine  eye, 
That  told  youth's  heartfelt  revelry  ! 
And  motion  changeful  as  the  wing 
Of  swallow  waken'd  by  the  spring; 
With  accents  blithe  as  voice  of  May, 
Chanting  glad  nature's  roundelay  ; 
Circled  by  joy  liko  planet  bright 
That  smilos  mid  wreaths  of  dewy  light, — 
Thy  image  such,  in  former  time, 
When  thou,  just  entering  on  thy  prime, 


And  woman's  sense  in  thee  combined 
Gently  with  childhood's  simplest  mind, 
First  taught'st  my  sighing  soul  to  move 
With  hope  towards  the  heaven  of  love ! 

Now  years  have  given  my  Mary's  face 
A  thoughtful  and  a  quiet  grace  ; — 
Though  happy  still — yet  chance  distress 
Hath  left  a  pensive  loveliness  ! 
Fancy  hath  tamed  her  fairy  gleams, 
And  thy  heart  broods  o'er  home-born  dreams ! 
Thy  smiles,  slow-kindling  now  and  mild, 
Shower  blessings  on  a  darling  child  ; 
Thy  motion  slow,  and  soft  thy  tread, 
As  if  round  thy  hush'd  infant's  bed  ! 
And  when  thou  speak'st,  thy  melting  tone, 
That  tells  thy  heart  is  all  my  own. 
Sounds  sweeter,  from  the  lapse  of  years, 
With  the  wife's  love,  the  mother's  fears ! 

By  thy  glad  youth,  and  tranquil  prime 
Assured,  I  smile  at  hoary  time  ! 
For  thou  art  doom'd  in  age  to  know 
The  calm  that  wisdom  steals  from  wo  ; 
The  holy  pride  of  high  intent, 
The  glory  of  a  life  well  spent. 
When  earth's  affections  nearly  o'er 
With  peace  behind,  and  faith  before, 
Thou  renderest  up  again  to  God, 
Untarnish'd  by  its  frail  abode, 
Thy  lustrous  soul, — then  harp  and  hymn, 
From  bands  of  sister  seraphim, 
Asleep  will  lay  thee,  till  thine  eye 
Open  in  immortality  ! 


THE  HUNTER. 

HIGH  life  of  a  hunter! — he  meets,  on  the  hill, 
The  new-waken'd  daylight,  so  bright  and  so  still ; 
And  feels,  as  the  clouds  of  the  morning  unroll, 
The  silence,  the  splendour,  ennoble  his  soul ! 
"Pis  his  on  the  mountains  to  stalk  like  a  ghost, 
Enshrouded  in  mist,  in  which  nature  is  lost; 
Till  he  lifts  up  his  eyes,  and  flood,  valley,  and  height, 
In  one  moment,  all  swim  in  an  ocean  of  light, — 
While  the  sun,  like  a  glorious  banner  unfurl'd, 
Seems  to  wave  o'er  a  new,  more  magnificent  world ! 
'Tis  his,  by  the  mouth  of  some  cavern  his  seat, 
The  lightning  of  heaven  to  see  at  his  feet, — 
While  the  thunder  below  him,  that  growls  from  the 

cloud, 

To  him  comes  in  echo  more  awfully  loud. 
When  the  clear  depth  of  noontide,  with  glittering 

motion, 

O'erflows  the  lone  glens — an  aerial  ocean, — 
When  the  earth  and  the  heavens,  in  union  profound, 
Lie  blended  in  beauty  that  knows  not  a  sound, — 
As  his  eyes  in  the  sunshiny  solitude  close, 
Neath  a  rock  of  the  desert  in  dreaming  repose, — 
He  sees  in  his  slumbers  such  visions  of  old 
As  wild  Gaelic  songs  to  his  infancy  told  ; 
O'er  the  mountains  a  thousand  plumed  hunters  are 

borne, — 
And  he  starts  from  his  dream,  at  the  blast  of  the 

horn ! 


248 


JOHN    WILSON. 


SIGNS  OF  THE  PLAGUE. 

WHY  does  the  finger, 

Yellow  mid  the  sunshine,  on  the  minster-clock, 
Point  at  that  hour  1     It  is  most  horrible, 
Speaking  of  midnight  in  the  face  of  day. 
During  the  very  dead  of  night  it  stopp'd, 
Even  at  the  moment  when  a  hundred  hearts 
Paused  with  it  suddenly,  to  beat  no  more. 
Yet,  wherefore  should  it  run  its  idle  round  1 
There  is  no  need  that  men  should  count  the  hours 
Of  time,  thus  standing  on  eternity. 
It  is  a  death-like  image.     How  can  I, 
When  round  me  silent  nature  speaks  of  death 
Withstand  such  monitory  impulses  1 
When  yet  far  off  I  thought  upon  the  plague, 
Sometimes  my  mother's  image  struck  my  soul, 
In  unchanged  meekness  and  serenity, 
And  all  my  fears  were  gone.  But  these  green  banks, 
With  an  unwonted  flush  of  flowers  o'ergrown, 
Brown,  when  I  left  them  last,  with  frequent  feet 
From  morn  till  evening  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
In  mournful  beauty  seem  encompassing 
A  still  forsaken  city  of  the  dead. 

O  unrejoicing  Sabbath  !  not  of  yore 
Did  thy  sweet  evenings  die  along  the  Thames 
Thus  silently  !     Now  every  sail  is  furl'd, 
The  oar  hath  dropt  from  out  the  rower's  hand, 
And  on  thou  (lowest  in  lifeless  majesty, 
River  of  a  desert  lately  fill'd  with  joy  ! 
O'er  all  that  mighty  wilderness  of  stone 
The  air  is  clear  and  cloudless,  as  at  sea 
Above  the  gliding  ship.     All  fires  are  dead, 
And  not  one  single  wreath  of  smoke  ascends 
Above  the  stillness  of  the  towers  and  spires. 
How  idly  hangs  that  arch  magnificent 
Across  the  idle  river !     Not  a  speck 
Is  seen  to  move  along  it.     There  it  hangs, 
Still  as  a  rainbow  in  the  pathless1  sky, 


THE  PLAGUE  IN  THE  CITY. 

Ksrow  ye  what  ye  will  meet  with  in  the  city  ? 
Together  will  ye  walk  through  long,  long  streets, 
All  standing  silent  as  a  midnight  church. 
You  will  hear  nothing  hut  the  brown  red  grass 
Rustling  beneath  your  feet ;  the  very  beating 
Of  your  own  hearts  will  awe  you  ;  the  small  voice 
Of  that  vain  bauble,  idly  counting  time, 
Will  speak  a  solemn  language  in  the  desert. 
Look  up  to  heaven,  and  there  the  sultry  clouds, 
Still  threatening  thunder,  lower  with  grim  delight, 
As  if  the  spirit  of  the  plague  dwelt  there, 
Darkening  the  city  with  the  shades  of  death. 
Know  ye  that  hideous  hubbub  1      Hark,  far  off 
A  tumult  like  an  echo  !  on  it  comes, 
Weeping  and  wailing,  shrieks  and  groaning  pray'r, 
And,  louder  than  all,  outrageous  blasphemy. 
The  passing  storm  hath  left  the  silent  streets, 
But  are  these  houses  near  you  t;>nantless  ] 
Over  your  heads  from  a  window,  suddenly 
A  ghastly  face  is  thrust,  and  yells  of  death 
With  voice  not  human.      Who  is  he  that  flies, 
As  if  a  demon  dogg'd  him  on  his  path  ] 


With  ragged  hair,  white  face,  and  bloodshot  eyes, 

Raving,  he  rushes  past  you  ;  till  he  falls, 

As  if  struck  by  lighting,  down  upon  the  stones, 

Or,  in  blind  madness,  dash'd  against  the  wall, 

Sinks  backward  into  stillness.     Stand  aloof, 

And  let  the  pest's  triumphal  chariot 

Have  open  way  advancing  to  the  tomb, 

See  how  he  mocks  the  pomp  and  pageantry 

Of  earthly  kings  !  a  miserable  cart, 

Heap'd  up  with  human  bodies  ;  dragg'd  along 

By  pale  steeds,  skeleton-anatomies  ! 

And  onwards  urged  by  a  wan,  meager  wretch, 

Doom'd  never  to  return  from  the  foul  pit, 

Whither,  with  oaths,  he  drives  his  load  of  horror. 

Would  you  look  in  1    Gray  hairs  and  golden  tresses, 

Wan  shrivell'd  cheeks,  that  have  not  smiled  for  years, 

And  many  a  rosy  visage  smiling  still  ; 

Bodies  in  the  noisome  weeds  of  beggary  wrapt, 

With  age  decrepit,  and  wasted  to  the  bone  ; 

And  youthful  frames,  august  and  beautiful, 

In  spite  of  mortal  pangs—  there  lie  they  all, 

Embraced  in  ghastliness  !     But  look  not  long, 

For  happily  mid  the  faces  glimmering  there, 

The  well-known  cheek  of  some  beloved  friend 

Will  meet  thy  gaze,  or  some  small  snow-white  hand, 

Bright  with  the  ring  that  holds  her  lover's  hair. 

THE  SHIP. 


lo  !  upon  the  murmuring  waves 
A  glorious  shape  appearing  ! 
A  broad-wing'd  vessel,  through  the  shower 

Of  glimmering  lustre  steering  ! 
As  if  the  beauteous  ship  enjoy'd 

The  beauty  of  the  sea, 
She  lifteth  up  her  stately  head 

And  saileth  joyfully. 
A  lovely  path  before  her  lies, 

A  lovely  path  behind  ; 
She  sails  amidst  the  loveliness 

Like  a  thing  with  heart  and  mind. 
Fit  pilgrim  through  a  scene  so  fair, 

Slowly  she  beareth  on  ; 
A  glorious  phantom  of  the  deep, 

Risen  up  to  meet  the  moon. 
The  moon  bids  her  tenderest  radiance  fall 

On  her  wavy  streamer  and  snow-white  wings, 
And  the  quiet  voice  of  the  rocking  sea 

To  cheer  the  gliding  vision  sings. 
Oh  !  ne'er  did  sky  and  water  blend 

In  such  a  holy  sleep, 
Or  bathe  in  brighter  quietude 

A  roarner  of  the  deep. 
So  far  the  peaceful  soul  of  heaven 

Hath  settled  on  the  sea, 
It  seems  as  if  this  weight  of  calm 

Were  from  eternity. 
O  world  of  waters  !   (he  steadfast  earth 

Ne'er  lay  entranced  liko  thee  ! 
Is  she  a  vision  wild  and  bright, 
That  sails  amid  the  still  moonlight 

At  the  dreaming  soul's  command  ? 
A  vessel  borne  by  magic  gales, 
All  rigg'd  with  gossamery  sails, 
And  bound  for  fairy-land  ! 


JOHN    WILSON. 


249 


Ah,  no ! — an  earthly  freight  she  bears, 
Of  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears  ; 
And  lonely  as  she  seems  to  be, 
Thus  left  by  herself  on  the  moonlight  sea 

In  loneliness  that  rolls, 
She  hath  a  constant  company, 
In  sleep,  or  .waking  revelry, 

Five  hundred  human  souls  ! 
Since  first  she  sail'd  from  fair  England, 

Three  moons  her  path  have  cheer'd  : 
And  another  lights  her  lovelier  lamp 

Since  the  Cape  hath  disappear^. 
For  an  Indian  isle  she  shapes  her  way 
With  constant  mind  both  night  and  day  : 
She  seems  to  hold  her  home  in  view 
And  sails,  as  if  the  path  she  knew  ; 
So  calm  and  stately  is  her  motion 
Across  the  unfathom'd  trackless  ocean. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  A  LONELY  BURIAL  GROUND  ON  THE  NORTHERN 
COAST  OF  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

How  mournfully  this  burial  ground 
Sleeps  mid  old  Ocean's  solemn  sound, 
Who  rolls  his  bright  and  sunny  waves 
All  round  these  deaf  and  silent  graves  ! 
The  cold  wan  light  that  glimmers  here, 
The  sickly  wild-flowers  may  not  cheer  ; 
If  here,  with  solitary  hum, 
The  wandering  mountain-bee  doth  come, 
Mid  the  pale  blossoms  short  his  stay, 
To  brighter  leaves  he  booms  away. 
The  sea-bird,  with  a  wailing  sound, 
Alighteth  softly  on  a  mound, 
And,  like  an  image,  sitting  there 
For  hours  amid  the  doleful  air, 
Seemeth  to  tell  of  some  dim  union, 
Some  wild  and  mystical  communion, 
Connecting  with  his  parent  sea 
This  lonesome,  stoneless  ceme'tiy. 

This  may  not  be  the  burial-place 
Of  some  extinguish'd  kingly  race, 
Whose  name  on  earth  no  longer  known 
Hath  moulder'd  with  the  mouldering  stone. 
That  nearest  grave,  yet  brown  with  mould, 
Seems  but  one  summer-twilight  old ; 
Both  late  and  frequent  hath  the  bier 
Been  on  its  mournful  visit  here, 
And  yon  green  spot  of  sunny  rest 
Is  waiting  for  its  destined  guest. 

I  see  no  little  kirk — no  bell 
On  Sabbath  tinkleth  through  this  dell, 
How  beautiful  those  graves  and  fair, 
That,  lying  round  the  house  of  prayer, 
Sleep  in  the  shadow  of  its  grace  ! 
But  death  has  chosen  this  rueful  place 
For  his  own  undivided  reign  ! 
And  nothing  tells  that  e'er  again 
The  sleepers  will  forsake  their  bed — 
Now,  and  for  everlasting  dead, 
For  hope  with  memory  seems  fled  ! 

Wild-screaming  bird  !   unto  the  sea 
Winging  thy  flight  reluctantly, 
Slow-floating  o'er  these  grassy  tombs, 
32 


So  ghost-like,  with  thy  snow-white  plumes, 
At  once  from  thy  wild  shriek  I  know 
What  means  this  place  so  steep'd  in  wo ! 
Here,  they  who  perish'd  on  the  deep 
Enjoy  at  last  unrocking  sleep, 
For  ocean,  from  this  wrathful  breast, 
Flung  them  into  this  haven  of  rest, 
Where  shroudless,  coffinless,  they  lie, — 
'Tis  the  shipwreck'd  seaman's  cemet'ry. 

Here  seamen  old,  with  grizzled  locks, 
Shipwreck'd  before  on  desert  rocks, 
And  by  some  wandering  vessel  taken 
From  sorrows  that  seem  God-forsaken, 
Home  bound,  here  have  met  the  blast 
That  wreck'd  them  on  death's  shore  at  last ! 
Old  friendless  'men,  who  had  no  tears 
To  shed,  nor  any  place  for  fears 
In  hearts  by  misery  fortified, — 
And,  without  terror,  sternly  died. 
Here,  many  a  creature,  moving  bright 
And  glorious  in  full  manhood's  might, 
Who  dared  with  an  untroubled  eye 
The  tempest  brooding  in  the  sky, 
And  loved  to  hear  that  music  rave, 
Arid  danced  above  the  mountain-wave, 
Hath  quaked  on  this  terrific  strand, — 
All  flung  like  sea-weeds  to  the  land ; 
A  whole  crew  lying  side  by  side, 
Death-dash'd  at  once  in  all  their  pride. 
And  here,  the  bright-hair'd,  fair-faced  boy, 
Who  took  with  him  all  earthly  joy 
From  one  who  weeps  both  night  and  day 
For  her  sweet  son  borne  far  away, 
Escaped  at  last  the  cruel  deep, 
In  all  his  beauty  lies  asleep  ; 
While  she  would  yield  all  hopes  of  grace 
For  one  kiss  of  his  pale,  cold  face ! 

Oh,  I  could  wail  in  lonely  fear, 
For  many  a  woful  ghost  sits  here, 
All  weeping  with  their  fixed  eyes ! 
And  what  a  dismal  sound  of  sighs 
Is  mingling  with  the  gentle  roar 
Of  small  waves  breaking  on  the  shore  ; 
While  ocean  seems  to  sport  and  play 
In  mockery  of  its  wretched  prey  ! 

And  lo  !  a  white-wing'd  vessel  sails 
In  sunshine,  gathering  all  the  gales 
Fast-freshening  from  yon  isle  of  pines, 
That  o'er  the  clear  sea  waves  and  shines. 
I  turn  me  to  the  ghostly  crowd, 
All  smear'd  with  dust,  without  a  shroud, 
And  silent  every  blue-swollen  lip ! 
Then  gazing  on  the  sunny  ship, 
And  listening  to  the  gladsome  cheers 
Of  all  her  thoughtless  mariners, 
I  seem  to  hear  in  every  breath 
The  hollow  under-tones  of  death, 
Who,  all  unheard  by  those  who  sing, 
Keeps  tune  with  low  wild  murmuring, 
And  points  with  his  lean,  bony  hand 
To  the  pale  ghosts  sitting  on  this  strand, 
Then  dives  beneath  the  rushing  prow, 
Till  on  some  moonless  night  of  wo 
He  drives  her  shivering  from  the  steep 
Down — down  a  thousand  fathoms  deep. 


250 


JOHN    WILSON. 


ADDRESS  TO  A  WILD  DEER. 

MAGNIFICENT  creature  !  so  stately  and  bright ! 
In  the  pride  of  thy  spirit  pursuing  thy  flight ; 
For  what  hath  the  child  of  the  desert  to  dread, 
Wafting  up  his  own  mountains  that  far  beaming 

head  ; 

Or  borne  like  a  whirlwind  down  on  the  vale  ! — 
Hail  !  king  of  the  wild  and  the  beautiful  ! — hail ! 
Hail !  idol  divine  ! — whom  nature  hath  borne 
O'er  a  hundred  hill-tops  since  the  mists  of  the  morn, 
Whom  the  pilgrim  lone  wandering  on  mountain 

and  moor, 

As  the  vision  glides  by  him,  may  blameless  adore  ; 
For  the  joy  of  the  happy,  the  strength  of  the  free, 
Are  spread  in  a  garment  of  glory  o'er  thee, 
Up  !  up  to  yon  cliff!  like  a  king  to  his  throne  ! 
O'er  the  black  silent  forest  piled  lofty  and  lone — 
A  throne  which  the  eagle  is  glad  to  resign 
Unto  footsteps  so  fleet  and  so  fearless  as  thine. 
There  the  bright  heather  springs  up  in  love  of  thy 

breast, 

Lo  !  the  clouds  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  are  at  rest ; 
And  the  race  of  the  wild  winds  is  o'er  on  the  hill ! 
In  the  hush  of  the  mountains,  ye  antlers,  lie  still ! — 
Though  your  branches  now  toss  in  the  storm  of 

delight 

Like  the  arms  of  the  pine  on  yon  shelterless  height, 
One  moment — thou  bright  apparition — delay  ! 
Then  inelt  o'er  the  crags,  like  the  sun  from  the  day. 

His  voyage  is  o'er — As  if  struck  by  a  spell, 
He  motionless  stands  in  the  hush  of  the  dell ; 
There  softly  and  slowly  sinks  down  on  his  breast, 
In  the  midst  of  his  pastime  enamour'd  of  rest. 
A  stream  in  a  clear  pool  that  endeth  its  race — 
A  dancing  ray  chain'd  to  one  sunshiny  place — 
A  cloud  by  the  winds  to  calm  solitude  driven — 
A  hurricane  dead  in  the  silence  of  heaven. 

Fit  couch  of  repose  for  a  pilgrim  like  thee : 
Magnificent  prison  enclosing  the  free ; 
With  rock  wall-encircled,  with  precipice  crown'd — 
Which,  awoke  by  the  sun,  thou  canst  clear  at  a  bound. 
Mid  the  fern  and  the  heather  kind  nature  doth  keep 
One  bright  spot  of  green  for  her  favourite's  sleep ; 
And  close  to  that  covert,  as  clear  to  the  skies 
When  their  blue  depths  are  cloudless,a  littlelake  lies, 
Where  the  creature  at  rest  can  his  image  behold, 
Looking  up  through  the  radiance,  as  bright  and  as 
bold. 

Yes :  fierce  looks  thy  nature,  e'en  hush'd  in 

repose — 

In  the  depths  of  thy  desert  regardless  of  foes, 
Thy  bold  antlers  call  on  the  hunter  afar, 
With  a  haughty  defiance  to  come  to  the  war. 
No  outrage  is  war  to  a  creature  like  thee  ; 
The  buglehorn  fills  thy  wild  spirit  with  glee, 
As  thou  bearest  thy  neck  on  the  wings  of  the  wind, 
And  the  laggardly  gaze-hound  is  toiling  behind. 
In  the  beams  of  thy  forehead,  that  glitter  with  death, 


In  feet  that  draw  power  from  the  touch  of  the  heath, — 
In  the  wide  raging  torrent  that  lends  thee  its  roar, — 
In  the  cliff  that  once  trod  must  be  trodden  no  more, — 
Thy  trust— mid  the  dangers  that  threaten  thy  reign: 
— But  what  if  the  stag  on  the  mountain  be  slain  1 
On  the  brink  of  the  rock— lo  !  he  standeth  at  bay, 
Like  a  victor  that  falls  at  the  close  of  the  day — 
While  the  hunter  and  hound  in  their  terror  retreat 
From  the  death  that  is  spurn'd  from  his  furious  feet; 
And  his  last  cry  of  anger  comes  back  from  the  skies, 
As  nature's  fierce  son  in  the  wilderness  dies. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  HIGHLAND 
GLEN. 

To  whom  belongs  this  valley  fair, 
That  sleeps  beneath  the  filmy  air, 

Even  like  a  living  thing] 
Silent  as  infant  at  the  breast, 
Save  a  still  sound  that  speaks  of  rest, 

That  streamlet's  murmuring ! 

The  heavens  appear  to  love  this  vale ; 
Here  clouds  with  scarce-seen  motion  sail, 

Or  mid  the  silence  lie ! 
By  the  blue  arch,  this  beauteous  earth, 
Mid  evening's  hour  of  dewy  mirth, 

Seems  bound  unto  the  sky. 

O  that  this  lovely  vale  were  mine  ! 
Then,  from  glad  youth  to  calm  decline, 

My  years  would  gently  glide  ; 
Hope  would  rejoice  in  endless  dreams, 
And  memory's  oft-returning  gleams 

By  peace  be  sanctified. 

There  would  unto  my  soul  be  given, 
From  presence  of  that  gracious  heaven, 

A  piety  sublime  ! 

And  thoughts  would  come  of  mystic  mood, 
To  make  in  this  deep  solitude 

Eternity  of  Time  ! 

And  did  I  ask  to  whom  belong'd 
This  vale  ?     I  feel  that  I  have  wrong'd 

Nature's  most  gracious  soul ! 
She  spreads  her  glories  o'er  the  earth, 
And  all  her  children,  from  their  birth, 

Are  joint  heirs  of  the  whole  ! 

Yea,  long  as  nature's  humblest  child 
Hath  kept  her  temple  undefiled 

By  sinful  sacrifice, 

Earth's  fairest  scenes  are  all  his  own  ; 
He  is  a  monarch,  and  His  throne 

Is  built  amid  the  skies  ! 


JAMES    SHERIDAN    KNOWLES. 


MR.  KNOWLES  was  born  at  Cork,  about  the 
year  1789.  His  father,  a  near  relative  of  the 
celebrated  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN,  was 
a  popular  teacher  of  elocution  in  that  city. 
Young  KNOWLES  was  at  a  very  early  age  placed 
at  a  school  in  England,  where  the  bent  of  his 
genius  was  shown  in  his  fondness  for  dramatic 
literature,  and  his  attempts  in  dramatic  com- 
position. His  first  effort  was  called  The 
Chevalier  Grillon.  At  sixteen  he  wrote  a 
tragedy  in  five  acts,  which  is  still  extant,  en- 
titled The  Spanish  Story ;  eight  years  after,  the 
tragedy  of  Hersilia;  and  in  his  twenty-sixth 
year  his  first  successful  piece,  The  Gipsy, 
which  was  performed  at  Waterford,  with 
EDMUND  KEAN  in  the  character  of  the  hero. 
This  was  succeeded  by  Brian  Boroighme, 
Caius  Gracchus,  Virginius,  William  Tell, 
Alfred  the  Great,  The  Hunchback,  The  Wife 
of  Mantua,  The  Beggar's  Daughter  of  Bethnal 
Green,  The  Love  Chase,  Woman's  Wit,  The 
Wrecker's  Daughter,  Love,  John  di  Procida, 
The  Maid  of  Mariendorpt,  The  Secretary,  and 
other  plays,  all  of  which  have  been  acted  with 
applause  in  the  British  and  American  theatres. 

Although  there  are  many  striking  and  beau- 
tiful passages  in  the  writings  of  KNOWLES, 
he  is  deserving  of  little  praise  as  a  poet.  It 
would  not  be  difficult  to  find  a  very  targe 
number  of  pieces,  among  the  unacted  dramas 
of  the  last  ten  years,  superior  to  his  in  every 
quality  but  effectiveness  for  the  stage.  He 
has  carefully  studied  the  Elizabethan  drama- 


tists ;  and  endeavoured,  not  altogether  without 
success,  to  fashion  himself  upon  the  best 
models  they  produced.  His  dialogue  is  spi- 
rited -and  dramatic,  the  action  of  his  pieces 
fine,  their  morality  unexceptionable,  and  the 
sympathy  he  manifests  with  human  nature 
deep  and  healthy.  But  he  has  incongruously 
blended  modern  manners,  opinions,  feelings, 
incidents,  and  actions,  with  the  antique ;  his 
versification  is  often  careless  and  inharmo- 
nious ;  and  he  is  deficient  in  the  important 
poetical  faculty  of  constructiveness.  Virgi- 
nius, The  Hunchback,  and  some  of  his  other 
pieces,  are,  however,  among  the  most  success- 
ful dramatic  compositions  of  the  age,  and  after 
the  making  of  all  abatements,  he  is  the  best 
playwright  who  has  written  in  England  dur- 
ing the  present  century. 

The  greatest  poet  of  the  world  was  an  actor, 
and  KNOWLES  has  thought  it  no  disgrace  to 
follow  so  illustrious  an  example.  I  remember 
having  seen  him  in  one  of  his  own  characters 
on  the  Park  stage  in  New  York  in  1835,  a 
year  in  which  FANNY  BUTLER,  in  whom  SID- 
DONS  seemed  to  live  anew,  transiently  restored 
to  the  stage  the  glory  of  its  palmier  days. 
As  an  actor,  however,  he  was  never  success- 
ful. He  still  appears  occasionally  in  the 
British  theatres;  but  probably  only  in  some  of 
the  less  important  characters  of  his  own  pieces. 

Mr.  KNOWLES  is  a  general  favourite  in 
society,  and  is  not  more  respected  for  his  abi- 
lities than  for  his  manly  virtues. 


LOVE'S  ARTIFICE. 

I  SAID  it  was  a  wilful,  wayward  thing, 
And  so  it  is,  fantastic  and  perverse  ! 
Which  makes  its  sport  of  persons  and  of  seasons, 
Takes  its  own  way,  no  matter  right  or  wrong. 
It  is  the  bee  that  finds  the  honey  out, 
Where  least  you  dream  't  would  seek  the  nectarous 

store. 

And  'tis  an  errant  masker — this  same  love — 
That  most  outlandish,  freakish  faces  wears 
To  hide  his  own  !     Looks  a  proud  Spaniard  now ; 
Now  a  grave  Turk  ;  hot  Ethiopian  next ; 
And  then  phlegmatic  Englishman  ;  and  then 
Gay  Frenchman  ;  by-and-by  Italian,  at 
All  things  a  song  ;  and  in  another  skip, 


Gruff  Dutchman  ;  still  is  love  behind  the  mask  ! 
It  is  a  hypocrite  !  looks  every  way 
But  that  where  lie  its  thoughts  !  will  openly 
Frown  at  the  thing  it  smiles  in  secret  on  ; 
Shows  most  like  hate,  e'en  when  it  most  is  love ; 
Would  fain  convince  you  it  is  very  rock 
When  it  is  water !  ice  when  it  is  fire  ! 
Is  oft  its  own  dupe,  like  a  thorough  cheat ; 
Persuades  itself  'tis  not  the  thing  it  is  ; 
Holds  up  its  head,  pursues  its  brows,  and  looks 
Askant,  with  scornful  lip,  hugging  itself 
That  it  is  high  disdain — till  suddenly 
It  falls  on  its  knees,  making  most  piteous  suit 
With  hail  of  tears  and  hurricane  of  sighs, 
Calling  on  heaven  and  earth  for  witnesses 
That  it  is  love,  true  love — nothing  but  love ! 

251 


252 


JAMES    SHERIDAN   KNOWLES. 


LAST  SCENE  IN  JOHN  DI  PROCIDA. 

[Isoline  follows  John  di  Procida  and  his  son,  her  husband, 
against  Messina,  of  which  city  her  father  is  governor.  Jls 
the  castle  falls  into  the  hands  of  the  Liberator,  she,  un- 
known to  either  party,  reaches  the  garden,  and  pauses, 
exhausted,  listening  to  the  tumult  of  the  battle.  ] 

Iso.  Thus  far  in  time — thus  far  in  safety !  Wer't 
Another  stride,  ere  take  it,  I  had  dropped. 
The  work  is  going  on  !  Oh,  spare  my  father — 
Spare  him,  and  deal  with  me  !     Hark  !    Massacre 
Has  left  this  quarter  free  ;  within  the  city 
Holding  her  gory  reign.     She  does  not  riot 
Within  the  castle  yet.     He  yet  may  live  !    [here  ? 
Limbs,  hold  me  up.     Don't  fail  me.     Who  comes 
My  father  ! — Father  ! 

Governor,  (entering  hastily  and  wildly.) 
Whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Stop  not  my  way  ! 

Iso.  Dost  thou  not  know  me  ? 

Gov.  No  ! 

In  times  like  these  men  know  not  one  another. 
Holding  together,  they  together  fall, 
As  men  in  knots  do  drown.     In  scattering 
Is  chance  of  safety.     Do  not  hold  me,  friend. 
Let  go.     Look  to  thyself.     Let  every  one 
Look  to  himself.     He's  lost  that  casts  his  eye 
Upon  another's  jeopardy.     His  own 
Asks  all  his  care.     Let  go  ! — Away  ! — Away  ! 

Iso.  (thrown  upon  her  knees,  as  he  rushes  off.} 
He  does  not  know  me  ! — He's  my  father,  and 
He  does  not  know  me  !    He's  distracted — mad  ! 
Fain  would  I  follow  him,  but  cannot.     No, 
My  knees  refuse  to  raise  me. 

Fernando,  (rushing  in.)   Isoline  ! 

Iso.   (throwing  herself  into  his  arms.) 
Fernando  !  my  Fernando  !  true,  to  death  ! 
My  buRbatid — mine  own  love  ! — I  die  for  joy  ! 
And  Lu*oS*  thee,  my  Fernando,  for  my  death ! 

[Swoons  in  his  arms. 

Fer.  Love!  wife!  choice  pattern  of  thypartial  sex! 
My  Isoline  !  She's  dead  !  she's  dead !  she's  dead  ! 

Guiscardo,  (enters,  sword  drawn.)  Fernando ! 

Fer.  Here,  Guiscardo  ! 

GUIS.  Who  is  she 
Hangs  swooning  on  thine  arm  1     Thy  bride  ? 

Fer.  My  bride ! 

Guis.  And  dead  ? 

Fer.  And  dead  ! 

Guis.  Set  down  the  carrion,  then, 
And  yield  me  payment  for  Martini's  death  ! 
I  want  not  odds !    I'll  fight  thee  like  a  man 
For  ancient  friendship's  sake  ! 

Fer.  Fight  me,  Guiscardo  !  [thy  sword. 

Guis.  Cast  down  thy  load  to  earth,  and  draw 

Fer.  Wouldst  murder  me  1  and  if  thou  wouldst, 

Guiscardo, 
Do  it  at  once  ! 

Guis.  I'd  treat  thee  like  a  man. 
Wilt  thou  not  throw  thyself  thy  burden  down 
And  act  like  one,  or  must  I  wrest  it  from  thee 
To  balk  thee  of  excuse?  [Approaching. 

Fer.  You  touch  her  not ! 
'Fore  her  dead  body  do  I  throw  my  life 
That  would  not  save  my  own  ! 

Guis.  Have  at  thee,  then!  [They  fight,  F.  falls. 


Andrea,  (rushing  in.}    Hold !    'tis  the  son  of 

John  of  Procida  ! 

Guis.  The  son  of  John  of  Procida  ! 
Fer.  Too  late  ! 

Take  her !  preserve  from  insult — pay  all  honours — 
For  her  sake,  not  for  mine, — and  lay  us  side 
By  side.     I  pant  for  death,  and  not  the  life 
Would  hold  my  spirit  from  rejoining  hers.    [Dies. 

Enter  John  of  Procida. 
Pro.  It  is  not  there  !  I  came  to  see  his  corse, 
But  not  to  smite  him.    No  !  I  would  not  stain 
This  day  of  freedom  with  the  narrow  deed 
Of  personal  vengeance.     To  the  swords  of  others 
I  would  have  left  him,  satisfied  if  they 
The  debt  exacted  that  was  due  to  mine. 
But  they,  intent  on  their  own  quarry,  mine 
Have  suffered  to  escape,  and  vengeance,  now 
Balked,  by  its  own  remissness,  of  its  prey, 
Gnashes  the  teeth  in  vain ! 
And.  Di  Procida ! 

Pro.  Ho!  Andrea!  what  bear'st  thou  on  thy  arm? 
And.  The  body  of  Fernando's  wife,  although 
If  this  be  death  I  do  mistake  its  hue ! 

Pro.  Who  lies  upon  the  ground?  the  governor? 
And.  Thy  son,  0  Procida  !    She  is  not  dead ! 
Help  here  !    Hold  off!  you  killed  him  ! 
Pro.  Killed  my  son  ! 

Guis.  Strike,  John  di  Procida !  He  sided  with 
The  enemies  of  Sicily. 

Pro.  He  did ; 

And  he  was  born  my  son  !    Live !  you  did  right. 
His  father  says  it.     Yet,  he  was  my  son  ! 
Guis.  I  knew  not  that. 
Pro.  And  had  you  known  it,  still 
You  had  done  right — I  say  it — I— his  father ! 
And  yet,  he  was  my  son  ! 

Iso.   (recovering.)  My  lord  !  my  husband! — 
Fernando  ! — draw  me  closer  to  thy  breast ! 
Hold  off!  Whoartthou?  Where's  Fernando?  Who 
Is  that  ? 

And.  Fernando's  father ! 
Iso.  So  it  is  ! 

And  we  are  safe  !  Are  we  not,  sir  ?  [reels  forward. 
Pro.  O,  Heaven  ! 
Iso.  You  will  not  let  them  murder  us  ?    You 

will  not! 

You  can't !  else  nature  has  no  truth  in  her, 
And  never  more  be  trusted  !     Never  more ! 
If  fathers  will  not  stretch  an  arm  to  save 
Their  children's  throats,  let  mothers'  breasts  run  dry, 
And  infants  at  the  very  founts  of  life 
Be  turn'd  to  stones !  Sir  !  father!  where'syour  son? 
Ah,  you  repulse  me  not !    You  let  me  come 
Closer  to  you.     Where's  my  Fernando,  father  ? 
What!  do  you  draw  me  to  you  ?  Would  you  take  me 
Into  your  very  bosom  ?     There  then  ! 

[Throws  her  arms  about  his  neck.]  Now, 
Fernando,  what's  to  fear  ?     Now,  mine  own  love, 
We  shall  be  happy  !   happy  !  blessed  happy  ! 
Why  don't  you  answer  me  ?   Where  is  he,  father  ? 
I  left  him  here  !     Where  I  have  been  I  know  not, 
I  recollect  a  sickness  as  of  death, 
And  now  it  comes  again.     My  brow  grows  chill 
And  damp — I'll  wipe  it !    Blood  !    what  brings  it 
here? 


280* 


JAMES    SHERIDAN    KNOWLES. 


253 


Whose  blood  is  this  ? 

And.  Blood  has  been  shed  to-day. 
No  vestment  in  Messina,  but  you'll  find 
Some  trace  upon't. 

Iso.  Where  is  my  husband,  sirs  1 
Is  this  Fernando's  blood  1     We  were  together, 
And  it  was  here !     If  death  did  threaten  us 
He  would  be  close  to  me,  of  his  own  life 
Making  a  shield  for  mine  !     Was  he^alive, 
Were  he  not  here  1    Not  here !  he  must  be  dead, 
And  this  must  be  his  blood ! 

Pro.  Remove  her,  friend  ; 

Take  and  remove  her  hence.     I  lack  the  strength. 
Her  plight,  to  mine  own  added,  weighs  me  down. 
She  must  not  see  his  body  ;  'tis  her  life 
That  I  feel  fluttering  next  my  breast  just  now 
As  ready  to  take  wing.     'Twere  certain  death 
To  look  upon  him. 

Iso.  (to  Andrea.")  No,  I  will  not  hence  ! 
You  will  murder  me.     I  am  safe  here — am  I  not  ? 
Am  I  not,  father  1      Father  !  where's  my  father  1 
He  did  not  know  me !  he  did  shake  me  off! 
He  fled  me  !     You  are  all  my  father  now  ! 
But  there's  Fernando,  too  !  You  are  not  weeping  1 
You  are  !  don't  weep  !  I'll  dry  your  eyes  for  you  ! 
The  blood  again  ! 

Pro.  We  must  remove  her  hence. 
Come  with  me,  child. 

Iso.  Child  !  do  you  call  me  child  7 
Child  !  is  a  sweet  name  ! 

Pro.  Come,  my  daughter. 

Iso.  Daughter ! 

That's  sweeter  yet  than  child.     Nothing  so  sweet 
After  the  name  of  wife  ;  but  wife's  not  sweeter 
Than  husband.     Husband  1    That's  the  sweetest 

name 

Of  all !  My  husband  is  your  son  !  and  son — 
There  is  a  sweet  name  too  !    No  sweeter  name 
Than  son  !    Do  you  not  think  so  1 

Pro.  Come. 

Iso.  I  Come ! 

We  are  going  to  Fernando.     Are  we  not  ? 
Sir,  fare-you-well.  What's  that  upon  the  ground  1 

And.  Where! 

Iso.  There  !  You  know  as  well  as  I !  Stand  off! 
[Breaks  away. 

Fernando  !  my  Fernando  !  dead  ?     Ay,  dead 
Indeed,  when  I  do  call  on  thee,  and  thou 
Return'st  no  answer  !     My  Fernando  !  dead  ! 
Ah  !  it  is  well !  Here's  silence  coming  too 
For  me,  love.     I  do  feel  the  frost  of  death 
Biting  my  limbs,  and  creeping  towards  my  heart, 
Colder  and  colder — all  will  soon  be  ice. 
'Tis  winter  ere  its  time !    but  welcome,  since 
'Tis  shared  with  you,  Fernando.    Mercy,  Heaven  ! 
'Tis  kind — 'tis  pitiful  to  suffer  me 
On  thy  dead  lips  to  breathe  my  life  away.      [Dies. 

And.  Let  me  conduct  thee  hence,  O  Procida  ! 
Grief  doth  benumb  his  every  faculty. 

Stephana,  (entering  with   others.)  Where   is 
John  of  Procida? 

And.  Behold  him. 

fife.  Health 

To  thee  and  to  Messina,  which,  to-day, 
Through  thee,  beholds  her  grievous  yoke  thrown  off. 


All  Sicily  is  free !    From  north  to  south, 
From  east  to  west  she  garrisons  herself, 
And  tyrants  rule  no  more  ! 

And.  Forgive  him  that 
He  heeds  you  not.     That  body  is  his  son's 
You  see  him  gazing  on  ! 

Sfe.  We  know  his  heart ! 

Thomas,  (entering  with  others.)  Health,  John 

of  Procida  !    The  enemy 
That  sacked  thy  castle,  and  who  yesterday 
Held  rule  in  Sicily,  the  Governor, 
Flying  from  death  did  meet  it  from  this  man, 
Who  knew  him,  intercepted  him,  and  slew  him. 

And.  All  enmities,  all  loves,  are  swallowed  up 
In  the  deep  gulf  of  sorrow  for  his  son. 

Carlo,  (entering  with  others.)  Where  is  our 
chief? 

And.  You  see  what's  left  of  him. 

Car.  The  admiral 

And  captains  of  the  fleet  have  disembarked 
To  swell  the  general  joy  ;  and,  yonder,  come 
Our  ancient  magistrates,  their  offices 
Suspended  long,  resumed  to  pay  their  debts 
To  John  of  Procida  ! 

Enter  Magistrates,  <$c. 

Chief  M.  Di  Procida 
The  Liberator — so  we  hail  thee — such 
Thy  deeds  declare  thee  better  than  our  words, 
For  us  and  for  our  children  at  our  hands, 
Whose  act  our  sovereign  master  will  approve, 
Most  poor  return  take  for  most  rich  desert, 
And  be  the  Governor  of  Sicily  ! 
[The  whole  assembly  shout  and  applaud — John 
of  Procida  weeps.] 

Pro.  Forgive  me — I'm  a  father — there's  my  son! 


THE  GROWTH  OF  LOVE. 

To  say  he  loved, 

Were  to  affirm  what  oft  his  eyes  avouch'd, 
What  many  an  action  testified — and  yet — 
What  wanted  confirmation  of  his  tongue. 
But  if  he  loved — it  brought  him  not  content ! 
'Twas  now  abstraction — now  a  start — anon 
A  pacing  to  and  fro — anon,  a  stillness, 
As  naught  remain'd  of  life,  save  life  itself, 
And  feejing,  thought,  and  motion,  were  extinct ! 
Then  all  again  was  action  !     Disinclined 
To  converse,  save  he  held  it  with  himself; 
Which  oft  he  did,  in  moody  vein  discoursing, 
And  ever  and  anon  invoking  Honour, 
As  some  high  contest  there  were  pending,  'twixt 
Himself  and  him,  wherein  her  aid  he  needed. 

—  I  saw  a  struggle, 

But  knew  not  what  it  was.     I  wonder'd  still, 
That  what  to  me  was  all  content,  to  him 
Was  all  disturbance ;  but  rny  turn  did  come. 
At  length  he  talk'd  of  leaving  us  ;  at  length, 
He  fix'd  the  parting  day — but  kept  it  not — 
O  how  my  heart  did  bound  !    Then  first  I  knew 
It  had  been  sinking.     Deeper  still  it  sank 
When  next  he  fix'd  to  go  ;  and  sank  it  then 
To  bound  no  more  !     He  went. 
Y 


254 


JAMES    SHERIDAN    KNOWLES. 


ARTIFICE  DISOWNED  BY  LOVE. 

I  CANNOT  think  love  thrives  by  artifice, 
Or  can  disguise  its  mood,  and  show  its  face. 
I  would  not  hide  one  portion  of  my  heart 
Where  I  did  give  it  and  did  feel  'twas  right, 
Nor  feign  a  wish,  to  mask  a  wish  that  was, 
Howe'er  to  keep  it.     For  no  cause  except 
Myself  would  I  be  loved.     What  were 't  to  me, 
My  lover  valued  me  the  more,  the  more 
He  saw  me  comely  in  another's  eyes, 
When  his  alone  the  vision  I  would  show, 
Becoming  to  1     I  have  sought  the  reason  oft, 
They  paint  love  as  a  child,  and  still  have  thought 
It  was  because  true  love,  like  infancy, 
Frank,  trusting,  unobservant  of  its  mood, 
Doth  show  its  wish  at  once,  and  means  no  more ! 


PRIDE  OF  RANK. 

DESCENT, 

You'll  grant,  is  not  alone  nobility, 

Will  you  not  1     Never  yet  was  line  so  long, 

But  it  beginning  had  :  and  that  was  found 

In  rarity  of  nature,  giving  one 

Advantage  over  many  ;  aptitude 

For  arms,  for  counsel,  so  superlative 

As  baffled  all  competitors,  and  made 

The  many  glad  to  follow  him  as  guide 

Or  safeguard ;  and  with  title  to  endow  him, 

For  his  high  honour,  or  to  gain  some  end 

Supposed  propitious  to  the  general  weal, 

On  those  who  should  descend  from  him  entail'd. 

Not  in  descent  alone,  then,  lies  degree, 

Which  from  descent  to  nature  may  be  traced, 

Its  proper  fount !     And  that,  which  nature  did, 

You'll  grant  she  may  be  like  to  do  again  ; 

And  in  a  very  peasant,  yea,  a  slave, 

Enlodge  the  worth  that  roots  the  noble  tree. 

I  trust  I  seem  not  bold,  to  argue  so. 


TELL  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

YE  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again ! 
I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld, 
To  show  they  still  are  free.     Methinks  I  hear 
A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me, 
And  bid  your  tenant  welcome  to  his  home 
Again  !    O  sacred  forms,  how  proud  you  look ! 
How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky  ! 
How  huge  you  are  !  how  mighty  and  how  free  ! 
How  do  you  look,  for  all  your  bared  brows, 
More  gorgeously  majestical  than  kings 
Whose  loaded  coronets  exhaust  the  mine ! 
Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine,  whose  smile 
Makes  glad,  whose  frown  is  terrible,  whose  forms, 
Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 
Of  awe  divine,  whose  subject  never  kneels 
In  mockery,  because  it  is  your  boast 
To  keep  him  free!     Ye  guards  of  liberty, 
I'm  with  you  once  again  ! — I  call  to  you 
With  all  my  voice  !     I  hold  my  hands  to  you 
To  show  they  still  are  free !    I  rush  to  you 
As  though  I  could  embrace  you  ! 


LOST  FREEDOM  OF  SWITZERLAND. 

OH  !  with  what  pride  I  used 
To  walk  these  hills,  and  look  up  to  my  God, 
And  bless  Him  that  it  was  so.     It  was  free— - 
From  end  to  end,  from  cliff  to  lake  'twas  free — 
Free  as  our  torrents  are  that  leap  our  rocks, 
And  plough  our  valleys,  without  asking  leave  ; 
Or  as  our  peaks  that  wear  their  caps  of  snow, 
In  very  presence  of  the  regal  sun  ! 
How  happy  was  I  in  it  then  !    I  loved 
Its  very  storms  !     Yes,  Emma,  I  have  sat 
In  my  boat  at  night,  when,  midway  o'er  the  lake, 
The  stars  went  out,  and  down  the  mountain  gorge 
The  wind  came  roaring — I  have  sat  and  eyed 
The  thunder  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smiled 
To  see  him  shake  his  lightnings  o'er  my  head, 
And  think  I  had  no  master  save  his  own  ! 
You  know  the  jetting  cliff  round  which  a  track 
Up  hither  winds,  whose  base  is  but  the  brow 
To  such  another  one,  with  scanty  room 
For  two  abreast  to  pass  1     O'ertaken  there 
By  the  mountain  blast,  I've  laid  me  fiat  along, 
And  while  gust  follow'd  gust  more  furiously, 
As  if  to  sweep  me  o'er  the  horrid  brink, 
And  I  have  thought  of  other  lands,  whose  storms 
Are  summer  flaws  to  those  of  mine,  and  just 
Have  wish'd  me  there — the  thought  that  mine  was 

free 

Has  check'd  that  wish,  and  I  have  raised  my  head, 
And  cried  in  thraldom  to  that  furious  wind, 
Blow  on  !     This  is  the  land  of  liberty  ! 


VIRGINIUS  IN  THE  FORUM, 

IN     REPLY    TO    A    SLAVE    WHO  CLAIMED    TO    BE   THE 
FATHER   OF    VIRGINIA, 

—  YOUR  answer  now,  Virginius  1 

—  Here  it  is  ! 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  slave  1     I  know 

'Tis  not  with  men,  as  shrubs  and  trees,  that  by 

The  shoot  you  know  the  rank  and  order  of 

The  stem.     Yet  who  from  such  a  stem  would  look 

For  such  a  shoot  1     My  witnesses  are  these — 

The  relatives  and  friends  of  Numitoria, 

Who  saw  her,  ere  Virginia's  birth,  sustain 

The  burden  which  a  mother  bears,  nor  feels 

The  weight,  with  longing  for  the  sight  of  it. 

Here  are  the  ears  that  listen'd  to  her  sighs 

In  nature's  hour  of  labour,  which  subsides 

In  the  embrace  of  joy — the  hands,  that  when 

The  day  first  look'd  upon  the  infant's  face, 

And  never  look'd  so  pleased,  help'd  them  up  to  it, 

And  bless'd  her  for  a  blessing — Here,  the  eyes 

That  saw  her  lying  at  the  generous 

And  sympathetic  fount,  that  at  her  cry 

Sent  forth  a  stream  of  liquid  living  pearl 

To  cherish  her  enamell'd  veins.     The  lie 

Is  most  unfruitful  then,  that  takes  the  flower — 

The  very  flower  our  bed  connubial  grew, 

To  prove  its  barrenness  ! 

Speak  for  me,  friends ! 
Have  I  not  spoke  the  truth  1 


MRS.    SOUTHEY. 


CAROLINE  ANNE  BOWLES,  a  sister  of  the 
Reverend  WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES,  was  born 
near  the  close  of  the  last  century.  On 
the  fourth  of  June,  1839,  she  was  married  to 
the  late  ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  poet  laureate. 
This  is  all  I  know  of  her  personal  history. 
She  is  one  of  the  cleverest  women  of  the  time, 
and,  besides  her  poems,  has  written  several 
prose  works  which  have  been  very  popular 
at  home  and  in  this  country.  Her  productions 


are  distinguished  for  correctness,  simplicity, 
and  tenderness.  She  has  little  imagination, 
but  she  has  a  kindly  disposition  and  an  un- 
usual depth  of  sentiment.  Occasionally  she 
is  playful,  but  the  genius  of  her  poetry  is  reli- 
gious. The  range  of  her  subjects  is  limited, 
but  her  writings  evince  a  nice  observation, 
a  sympathy  with  the  suffering,  and  a  pious 
trustfulness.  She  has  published  two  volumes 
of  poems,  The  Birth  Day,  and  Autumn  Flowers. 


THE  WELCOME  HOME. 

HARK  !  hark !  they're  come  ! — those  merry  bells 
That  peal  their  joyous  welcome  swells  ; 
And  many  hearts  are  swelling  high, 
With  more  than  joy — with  ecstasy  ! 

And  many  an  eye  is  straining  now 
Toward  that  good  ship,  that  sails  so  slow ; 
And  many  a  look  toward  the  land 
They  cast  upon  that,  deck  who  stand. 

Flow,  flow,  ye  tides ! — ye  languid  gales, 
Rise,  rise,  and  fill  their  flagging  sails  ! — 
Ye  tedious  moments,  fly,  begone, 
And  speed  the  blissful  meeting  on. 

Impatient  watchers  !  happy  ye, 
Whose  hope  shall  soon  be  certainty ; 
Happy,  thrice  happy  !  soon  to  strain 
Fond  hearts  to  kindred  hearts  again ! 

Brothers  and  sisters — children — mother — 
All,  all  restored  to  one  another! 
All,  all  return'd  ; — And  are  there  none 
To  me  restored,  return'd  1 — Not  one. 

Far  other  meeting  mine  must  be 
With  friends  long  lost — far  other  sea 
Than  thou,  O  restless  ocean  !  flows 
Between  us — one  that  never  knows 

Ebb-tide  or  flood  ; — a  stagnant  sea  ; 
Time's  gulf; — its  shore  eternity  ! 
No  voyager  from  that  shadowy  bourne 
With  chart  or  sounding  may  return. 

There,  there  the y  stand — the  loved  ! — the  lost ! 
They  beckon  from  that  awful  coast ! — 
They  cannot  thence  return  to  me, 
But  I  shall  go  to  them. — I  see 

E'en  now,  methinks,  those  forms  so  dear, 
Bend  smiling  to  invite  me  there. 


O,  best  beloved  !  a  little  while, 
And  I  obey  that  beckoning  smile  ! 

'T  is  all  my  comfort  now  to  know 
In  God's  good  time  it  shall  be  so ; 
And  yet,  in  that  sweet  hope's  despite 
Sad  thoughts  oppress  my  heart  to-night. 

And  doth  the  sight  of  others'  gladness 
Oppress  the  selfish  heart  with  sadness  ? 
Now  Heaven  forbid  ! — but  tears  will  rise- 
Unbidden  tears — into  mine  eyes, 

When  busy  thought  contrasts  with  theirs 
My  fate,  my  feelings.    Four  brief  years 
Have  wing'd  their  flight,  since,  where  they  stand, 
I  stood,  and  watch'd  that  parting  band, 

(Then  parting  hence) — and  one,  methought, 
(O  human  foresight!  set  at  nought 
By  God's  unfathom'd  will !)  was  borne 
From  England,  never  to  return  ! — 

With  sadden'd  heart,  I  turn'd  to  seek 
Mine  own  beloved  home — to  speak 
With  her  who  shared  it,  of  the  fears 
She  also  shared  in  ...  It  appears 

But  yesterday  that  thus  we  spoke ; 
And  I  can  see  the  very  look 
With  which  she  said,  "  I  do  believe 
Mine  eyes  have  ta'en  their  last  long  leave 

Of  her  who  has  gone  hence  to-day  !" 
Five  months  succeeding  slipp'd  away ; 
And,  on  the  sixth,  a  deep-toned  bell 
Swung  slow,  of  recent  death  to  tell ; 

It  toll'd  for  her,  with  whom  so  late 
I  reason'd  of  impending  fate  ; 
To  me  those  solemn  words  who  spoke 
So  late,  with  that  remember'd  look  ! 

And  now,  from  that  same  steeple,  swells 
A  joyous  peal  of  merry  bells, 
Her  welcome,  whose  approaching  doom 
We  blindly  thought — a  foreign  tomb  ! 
255 


256 


MRS.    SOUTHEY. 


ANGLING. 

MY  father  loved  the  patient  angler's  art ; 
And  many  a  summer  day,  from  early  morn 
To  latest  evening,  by  some  streamlet's  side 
We  two  have  tarried ;  strange  companionship ! 
A  sad  and  silent  man  ;  a  joyous  child. 
Yet  were  those  days,  as  I  recall  them  now, 
Supremely  happy.     Silent  though  he  was, 
My  father's  eyes  were  often  on  his  child- 
Tenderly  eloquent — and  his  few  words 
Were  kind  and  gentle.     Never  angry  tone 
Repulsed  me,  if  I  broke  upon  his  thoughts 
With  childish  question.     But  I  learnt  at  last — 
Learnt  intuitively  to  hold  my  peace 
When  the  dark  hour  was  on  him,  and  deep  sighs 
Spoke  the  perturbed  spirit — only  then 
I  crept  a  little  closer  to  his  side, 
And  stole  my  hand  in  his,  or  on  his  arm 
Laid  my  cheek  softly  ;  till  the  simple  wile 
Won  on  his  sad  abstraction,  and  he  turn'd 
With  a  faint  smile,  and  sigh'd,  and  shook  his  head, 
Stooping  toward  me ;  so  I  reached  at  last 
Mine  arm  about  his  neck,  and  clasp'd  it  close, 
Printing  his  pale  brow  with  a  silent  kiss. 

That  was  a  lovely  brook,  by  whose  green  marge 
We  two,  (the  patient  angler  and  his  child) 
Loiter'd  away  so  many  summer  days  ! 
A  shallow  sparkling  stream,  it  hurried  now 
Leaping  and  glancing  among  large  round  stones, 
With  everlasting  friction  chafing  still 
Their  polish'd  smoothness ;  on  a  gravelly  bed, 
Then  softly  slipt  away  with  rippling  sound, 
Or  all  inaudible,  where  the  green  moss 
Sloped  down  to  meet  the  clear  reflected  wave, 
That  lipp'd  its  emerald  bank  with  seeming  show 
Of  gentle  dalliance.     In  a  dark,  deep  pool 
Collected  now,  the  peaceful  waters  slept 
Embay 'd  by  rugged  headlands;  hollow  roots 
Of  huge  old  pollard  willows.     Anchor'd  there 
Rode  safe  from  every  gale,  a  silvan  fleet 
Of  milk-white  water  lilies ;  every  bark 
Worthy  as  those  on  his  own  sacred  flood 
To  waft  the  Indian  Cupid.     Then  the  stream 
Brawling  again  o'er  pebbly  shallows  ran, 
On — on,  to  where  a  rustic,  rough-hewn  bridge, 
All  bright  with  mosses  and  green  ivy  wreathes, 
Spann'd  the  small  channel  with  its  single  arch ; 
And  underneath,  the  bank  on  either  side 
Shelved  down  into  the  water  darkly  green 
With  unsunn'd  verdure ;  or  whereon  the  sun 
Look'd  only  when  his  rays  at  eventide 
Obliquely  glanced  between  the  blacken'd  piers 
With  arrowy  beams  of  orient  emerald  light 
Touching  the  river  and  its  velvet  marge — 
'Twas  there,  beneath  the  archway,  just  within 
Its  rough  misshapen  piles,  I  found  a  cave, 
A  little  secret  cell,  one  large  flat  stone 
Its  ample  floor,  embedded  deep  in  moss, 
And  a  rich  tuft  of  dark  blue  violet, 
And  fretted  o'er  with  curious  groining  dark, 
Like  vault  of  Gothic  chapel  was  the  roof 

Of  that  small  cunning  cave Methought 

The  little  Naiad  of  our  brook  might  haunt 
That  cool  retreat,  and  to  her  guardian  care 


My  wont  was  ever,  at  the  bridge  arrived, 

To  trust  our  basket,  with  its  ample  store 

Of  home-made,  wholesome  cates  ;  by  one  at  home 

Provided  for  our  banquet-hour  at  noon. 

A  joyful  hour !  anticipated  keen 
With  zest  of  youthful  appetite  I  trow, 
Full  oft  expelling  unsubstantial  thoughts 
Of  grots  and  naiads,  sublimated  fare — 
The  busy,  bustling  joy,  with  housewife  airs 
(Directress,  handmaid,  lady  of  the  feast!) 
To  spread  that  "  table  in  the  wilderness !" 
The  spot  selected  with  deliberate  care, 
Fastidious  from  variety  of  choice, 
Where  all  was  beautiful.     Some  pleasant  nook 
Among  the  fringing  alders:  or  beneath 
A  single  spreading  oak :  or  higher  up 
Within  the  thicket,  a  more  secret  bower, 
A  little  clearing  carpeted  all  o'er 
With  creeping  strawberry,  and  greenest  moss 
Thick  vein'd  with  ivy.     There  unfolded  smooth 
The  snowy  napkin  (carefully  secured 
At  every  corner  with  a  pebbly  weight,) 
Was  spread  prelusive ;  fairly  garnish'd  soon 
With  the  contents  (most  interesting  then) 
Of  the  well-plenish'd  basket :  simple  viands, 
And  sweet  brown  bread,  and  biscuits  for  dessert, 
And  rich  ripe  cherries;  and  two  slender  flasks, 
Of  cider  one,  and  one  of  sweet  new  milk, 
Mine  own  allotted  beverage,  temper'd  down 
From  the  near  streamlet.     Two  small  silver  cups 
Set  our  grand  buffet — and  all  was  done ; 
But  there  I  stood  immovable,  entranced, 
Absorb'd  in  admiration — shifting  oft 
My  ground  contemplative,  to  reperuse 
In  every  point  of  view  the  perfect  whole 
Of  that  arrangement,  mine  own  handiwork. 
Then  glancing  skyward,  if  my  dazzled  eyes 
Shrank  from  the  sunbeams,  vertically  bright, 
Away,  away,  toward  the  river's  brink 
I  ran  to  summon  from  his  silent  sport 
My  father  to  the  banquet ;  tutor'd  well, 
As  I  approach'd  his  station,  to  restrain 
All  noisy  outbreak  of  exuberant  glee ; 
Lest  from  their  quiet  haunts  the  finny  prey 
Should  dart  far  off  to  deeper  solitudes. 
The  gentle  summons  met  observance  prompt, 
Kindly  considerate  of  the  famish'd  child  : 
And  all  in  order  left — the  mimic  fly 
Examined  and  renew'd,  if  need  required, 
Or  changed  for  other  sort,  as  time  of  day, 
Or  clear  or  clouded  sky,  or  various  signs 
Of  atmosphere  or  water,  so  advised 
Th'  experienced  angler ;  the  long  line  afloat — 
The  rod  securely  fix'd ;  then  into  mine 
The  willing  hand  was  yielded,  and  I  led 
With  joyous  exultation  that  dear  guest 
To  our  green  banquet-room.     Not  Leicester's  self, 
When  to  the  hall  of  princely  Kenilworth 
He  led  Elizabeth,  exulted  more 
With  inward  gratulation  at  the  show 
Of  his  own  proud  magnificence,  than  I, 
When  full  in  view  of  mine  arranged  feast, 
I  hold  awhile  my  pleased  companion  back, 
Exacting  wonder — admiration,  praise, 
With  pointing  finger,  and  triumphant  «  There  !" 


MRS.    SOUTHEY. 


257 


AUTUMN  FLOWERS. 

THOSE  few  pale  autumn  flowers  ! 

How  beautiful  they  are  ! 
Than  all  that  went  before, 
Than  all  the  summer  store, 

How  lovelier  far  ! 

And  why  1 — they  are  the  last — 

The  last ! — the  last ! — the  last ! — 
Oh,  by  that  little  word, 
How  many  thoughts  are  stirr'd  ! 
That  sister  of  the  past ! 

Pale  flowers  ! — pale,  perishing  flowers  ! 

Ye're  types  of  precious  things ; 
Types  of  those  bitter  moments 
That  flit,  like  life's  enjoyments, 

On  rapid,  rapid  wings. 

Last  hours  with  parting  dear  ones, 
(That  time  the  fastest  spends,) 

Last  tears,  in  silence  shed, 

Last  words,  half-uttered, 

Last  looks  of  dying  friends  ! 

Who  but  would  fain  compress 

A  life  into  a  day ; 
The  last  day  spent  with  one 
Who,  ere  the  morrow's  sun, 

Must  leave  us,  and  for  aye  ? 

0  precious,  precious  moments ! 

Pale  flowers  !  ye're  types  of  those — 
The  saddest !  sweetest !  dearest ! 
Because,  like  those,  the  nearest 

Is  an  eternal  close. 

Pale  flowers  !   Pale,  perishing  flowers  ! 
I  woo  your  gentle  breath  ; 

1  leave  the  summer  rose 
For  younger,  blither  brows — 

Tell  me  of  change  and  death  ! 


THE  PAUPER'S  DEATH-BED. 

TREAD  softly — bow  the  head — 
In  reverent  silence  bow — 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll — 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger !  however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow ; 
There's  one  in  that  poor  shed- 
One  by  that  paltry  bed — 
Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar's  roof, 

Lo  !  death  does  keep  his  state ; 

Enter — no  crowds  attend — 

Enter — no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 

That  pavement,  damp  and  cold, 
No  smiling  courtiers  tread  ; 
33 


One  silent  woman  stands, 
Lifting  with  meager  hands 
A  dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound—- 
An infant  wail  alone ; 
A  sob  suppress'd — agen 
That  short,  deep  gasp,  and  then 
The  parting  groan. 

O  change ! — 0  wondrous  change  !- 
Burst  are  the  prison  bars — 

This  moment  there,  so  low, 

So  agonized,  and  now 
Beyond  the  stars  ! 

O  change ! — stupendous  change ! 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod ; 
The  Sun  eternal  breaks — 
The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Wakes  with  his  God. 


THE  MARINER'S  HYMN. 

LAUNCH  thy  bark,  mariner! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee  ! 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands — 

Good  angels  lead  thee  ! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily, 

Christian,  steer  home ! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow, 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now, 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail,  there  ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast ! 
So — let  the  vessel  wear — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"  What  of  the  night,  watchman  ? 
What  of  the  night?" 

"  Cloudy — all  quiet- 
No  land  yet — all's  right !" 

Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant — 
Danger  may  be 

At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 
Securest  to  thee. 

How  !  gains  the  leak  so  fast  1 

Clear  out  the  hold — 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold ; — 
There — let  the  ingots  go — 

Now  the  ship  rights  ; 
Hurra !  the  harbour's  near — 

Lo,  the  red  lights  ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on, 

Cut  through  the  foam — 
Christian !  cast  anchor  now — 

Heaven  is  thy  home  ! 


HENRY    HART    MILMAN. 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN  was  born  in  London 
on  the  tenth  of  February,  1791,  and  was  the 
youngest  son  of  Sir  FRANCIS  MILMAN,  physi- 
cian to  the  king.  In  1801  he  was  sent  to 
Eton,  and  in  1810  he  entered  Brazen  Nose 
College,  Oxford,  where  he  gained  the  first 
honours  in  examinations,  and  received  many 
prizes  for  English  and  Latin  poems  and  es- 
says. In  1815  he  became  a  fellow  of  his 
college,  and  two  years  afterward  entered  into 
holy  orders.  The  living  of  St.  Mary's,  in 
Reading,  was  bestowed  upon  him  in  1817, 
and  he  devoted  much  of  his  attention  to  the 
duties  of  his  profession,  until  he  was  elected 
Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford,  in  1821. 

Mr.  MILMAN  commenced  his  course  as  a 
poet  with  the  Judidum  Regale,  in  which  the 
people  of  the  different  nations  of  Europe  pro- 
nounce their  judgment  against  NAPOLEON. 
This  was  followed  by  the  tragedy  of  Fazio, 
which  was  performed  before  crowded  houses 
at  Urury  Lane,  and  is  still  occasionally  played 
in  the  British  and  American  theatres. 

His  next  work,  The  Fall  of  Jerusalem,  ap- 
peared in  1820.  The  basis  of  the  story  is  a 
passage  in  JOSEPHUS,  and  the  events,  occupy- 
ing a  considerable  time  in  the  history,  are  in 
the  play  compressed  into  a  period  of  thirty-six 
hcurs.  The  object  of  the  author  was  to  show 
the  full  completion  of  prophecy  in  the  great 
event  which  he  commemorates. 

The  Martyr  of  Antioch,  published  in  1822, 
is  founded  on  a  legend  related  in  the  twenty- 
third  chapter  of  GIBBON,  of  the  daughter  of  a 
priest  of  APOLLO  at  Antioch,  who  was  beloved 
by  OLYBIUS,  prefect  of  the  East  in  the  reign 
of  PROBUS,  converted  to  the  Christian  religion, 
and  sacrificed  to  the  unrelenting  spirit  of 
offended  heathenism.  It  is  an  attempt  to  pre- 
sent in  contrast  the  simple  faith  of  JESUS  and 
the  most  gorgeous  yet  most  natural  of  pagan 
superstitions,  the  worship  of  the  sun.  The 
tale  is  similar  to  that  of  LOCKIT\RT'S  fine  ro- 
mance of  Valerius,  by  which  it  was  probably 
suggested  ;  and,  except  in  its  tragical  termina- 
tion and  some  minor  characteristics,  the  plot  of 
the  drama  is  inferior  to  that  of  the  novel.  In 
the  same  year  he  finished  Belshazzar.  The 


subject  is  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  poetical 
in  the  Scriptures,  but  Mr.  MILMAN  failed,  as 
signally  as  some  writers  of  less  pretension, 
in  its  treatment.  The  characters  are  the  De- 
stroying Angel  from  Heaven,  sent  to  complete 
the  annihilation  of  Babylon;  Belshazzar,  his 
mother,  Kalassan  high-priest  of  Bel,  the  Cap- 
tain of  the  Guard,  and  the  eunuch  Sabaris, 
Chaldeans;  with  Daniel,  Imlah,  his  wife,  his 
daughter  Benina,  and  her  betrothed  lover,  He- 
brews. The  story  is  that  of  the  Handwriting 
on  the  Wall,  with  an  underplot,  in  which  Be- 
nina is  seized  as  the  virgin  devoted  to  the 
pagan  deity,  but  in  fact  destined  for  the  cham- 
bers of  Kalassan.  The  fall  of  the  city  inter- 
venes to  save  her;  the  Chaldeans  perish,  and 
the  Jews  are  restored  to  happiness/  The  time  is 
one  day,  from  the  morning  to  the  conflagration 
of  the  Assyrian  capital.  These  actors  and  cir- 
cumstances demand  earnestness,  force,  tender- 
ness, the  grandest  and  most  beautiful  imagery, 
and  a  sustained  enthusiasm;  but  the  piece  is 
tame  and  monotonous,  inferior,  even  its  lyrical 
portions,  to  the  earlier  works  of  the  author. 
The  latest  of  his  dramas  is  Anne  Boleyn,  in 
which  the  characters  of  King  Henry  and  the 
Jesuit  Angelo  CarafTa  are  well  delineated  and 
sustained,  though  the  work  has  no  great  merit 
as  a  play  or  a  poem. 

Besides  his  dramatic  works,  Mr.  MILMAN 
is  the  author  of  Samor,  the  Lord  of  the  Bright 
City,  an  epic  in  twelve  books;  and  a  volume 
of  minor  poems,  none  of  which  are  equal  to 
passages  in  his  tragedies.  He  has  likewise 
written  the  best  History  of  the  Jews  in  our 
language,  and  a  History  of  Christianity,  both 
of  which  have  been  republished  by  Messrs. 
Harper  of  New  York.  He  now  resides  in 
London,  and  is  prebendary  of  St.  Peter's,  and 
minister  of  St.  Margaret's,  Westminster. 

Mr.  MILMAN'S  poems  contain  some  spirited 
lyrics,  and  much  vigorous  declamation  and 
fine  description;  but,  though  he  is  not  per- 
haps a  plagiarist,  they  embrace  nothing  new, 
and  nothing  to  entitle  him  to  the  appellation  of 
a  great  poet.  They  are  simply  the  verses  of  a 
well-educated  gentleman,  who  has  little  sym- 
pathy with  humanity. 

258 


HENRY    HART    MILMAN. 


259 


ROWENA. 

CEASED  the  bold  strain,  then  deep  the  Saxon 

drain'd 

The  ruddy  cup,  and  savage  joy  uncouth 
Lit  his  blue  gleaming  eyes :  nor  sate  unmoved 
The  Briton  chiefs ;  fierce  thoughts  began  to  rise 
Of  ancient  wars,  and  high  ancestral  fame. 
Sudden  came  floating  through  the  hall  an  air 
So  strangely  sweet,  the  o'erwrought  sense  scarce 
Its  rich  excess  of  pleasure;  softer  sounds         [felt 
Melt  never  on  the  enchanted  midnight  cool, 
By  haunted  spring,  where  elfin  dancers  trace 
Green  circlets  on  the  moonlight  dews ;  nor  lull 
Becalmed  mariner  from  rocks,  where  basks 
At  summer  noon  the  sea-maid ;  he  his  oar 
Breathless  suspends,  and  motionless  his  bark 
Sleeps  on  the  sleeping  waters.     Now  the  notes 
So  gently  died  away,  the  silence  seem'd 
Melodious ;  merry  now,  and  light  and  blithe 
They  danced  on  air :  anon  came  tripping  forth 
In  frolic  grace  a  maiden  troop,  their  locks 
Flower-wreathed,  their  snowy  robes  from  clasped 

zone 

Fell  careless  drooping,  quick  their  glittering  feet 
Glanced  o'er  the  pavement.  Then  the  pomp  of  sound 
Swell'd  up,  and  mounted  ;  as  the  stately  swan, 
Her  milk-white  neck  embower'd  in  arching  spray, 
Queens  it  along  the  waters,  entered  in 
The  lofty  hull  a  shape  so  fair,  it  lull'd 
The  music  into  silence,  yet  itself 
Pour'd  out,  prolonging  the  soft  ecstasy, 
The  trembling  and  the  touching  of  sweet  sound. 
Her  grace  of  motion  and  of  look,  the  smooth 
And  swimming  majesty  of  step  and  tread, 
The  symmetry  of  form  and  feature,  set 
The  soul  afloat,  even  like  delicious  airs 
Of  flute  or  harp :  as  though  she  trod  from  earth, 
And  round  her  wore  an  emanating  cloud 
Of  harmony,  the  lady  moved.    Too  proud 
For  less  than  absolute  command,  too  soft 
For  aught  but  gentle,  amorous  thought:  her  hair 
Cluster'd,  as  from  an  orb  of  gold  cast  out 
A  dazzling  and  o'erpowering  radiance,  save 
Here  and  there  on  her  snowy  neck  reposed 
In  a  soothed  brilliance,  some  thin,  wandering  tress. 
The  azure  flashing  of  her  eye  was  fringed 
With  virgin  meekness,  and  her  tread,  that  seem'd 
Earth  to  disdain,  as  softly  fell  on  it 
As  the  light  dew-shower  on  a  tuft  of  flowers. 
The  soul  within  seem'd  feasting  on  high  thoughts, 
That  to  the  outward  form  and  feature  gave 
A  loveliness  of  scorn,  scorn  that  to  feel 
Was  bliss,  was  sweet  indulgence.    Fast  sank  back 
Those  her  fair  harbingers,  their  modest  eyes, 
Downcast,  and  drooping  low  their  slender  necks 
In  graceful  reverence ;  she,  by  wondering  gaze 
Unmoved,  and  stifled  murmurs  of  applause, 
Nor  yet  unconscious,  slowly  won  her  way 
To  where  the  king,  amid  the  festal  pomp, 
Sate  loftiest ;  as  she  raised  a  fair-chased  cup, 
Something  of  sweet  confusion  overspread 
Her  features ;  something  tremulous  broke  in 
On  her  half-failing  accents,  as  she  said  [up, 

"Health  to  the  king!" — the  sparkling  wine  laugh'd 


As  eager  'twere  to  touch  so  fair  a  lip. 
A  moment,  and  the  apparition  bright 
Had  parted ;  as  before,  the  sound  of  harps 
Was  wantoning  about  the  festive  hall. 


LAMENTATION  OVER  JERUSALEM. 

THERE  have  been  tears  from  holier  eyes  than  mine 
Pour'd  o'er  thee,  Zion  !   yea,  the  Son  of  Man 
This  thy  devoted  hour  foresaw  and  wept. 
And  I — can  I  refrain  from  weeping?    Yes, 
My  country,  in  thy  darker  destiny 
Will  I  awhile  forget  mine  own  distress. 

I  feel  it  now,  the  sad,  the  coming  hour ; 

The  signs  are  full,  and  never  shall  the  sun 
Shine  on  the  cedar  roofs  of  Salem  more ; 

Her  tale  of  splendour  now  is  told  and  done : 
Her  wine-cup  of  festivity  is  spilt, 
And  all  is  o'er,  her  grandeur  and  her  guilt. 

O  !  fair  and  favour'd  city,  where  of  old 
The  balmy  airs  were  rich  with  melody, 
That  led  her  pomp  beneath  the  cloudless  sky 

In  vestments,  flaming  with  the  orient  gold  ; 

Her  gold  is  dim,  and  mute  her  music's  voice ; 

The  heathen  o'er  her  perish'd  pomp  rejoice. 

How  stately  then  was  every  palm-deck'd  street, 
Down  which  the  maidens  danced  with  tinkling  feet! 

How  proud  the  elders  in  the  lofty  gate  ! 
How  crowded  all  her  nation's  solemn  feasts 
With  white-robed  Levites  and  high-mitred  priests! 

How  gorgeous  all  her  temple's  sacred  state, 
Her  streets  are  razed,  her  maidens  sold  for  slaves, 
Her  gates  thrown  down,  her  elders  in  their  graves; 
Her  feasts  are  holden  mid  the  gentile's  scorn, 
By  stealth  her  priesthood's  holy  garments  worn ; 
And  where  her  temple  crown'd  the  glittering  rock, 
The  wandering  shepherd  folds  his  evening  flock. 

When  shall  the  work,  the  work  of  death  begin] 
When  come  the  avengers  of  proud  Judah's  sin? 
Aceldama !   accursed  and  guilty  ground, 
Gird  all  the  city  in  thy  dismal  bound ; 

Her  price  is  paid,  and  she  is  sold  like  thou ; 
Let  every  ancient  monument  and  tomb 
Enlarge  the  border  of  its  vaulted  gloom, 

Their  spacious  chambers  all  are  wanted  now. 

But  never  more  shall  yon  lost  city  need 
Those  secret  places  for  her  future  dead ; 
Of  all  her  children,  when  this  night  is  pass'd, 
Devoted  Salem's  darkest,  and  her  last, 
Of  all  her  children  none  is  left  to  her, 
Save  those  whose  house  is  in  the  sepulchre. 

Yet,  guilty  city,  who  shall  mourn  for  thee  1 

Shall  Christian  voices  wail  thy  devastation? 
Look  down  !  look  down,  avenged  Calvary, 

Upon  thy  late  yet  dreadful  expiation. 
O  !  long  foretold,  though  slow  accomplished  fate, 
"  Her  house  is  left  unto  her  desolate  ;" 
Proud  Caesar's  ploughshare,  o'er  her  ruins  driven, 
Fulfils  at  length  the  tardy  doom  of  Heaven ; 
The  wrathful  vial's  drops  at  length  arc  pour'd 
On  the  rebellious  race  that  crucified  their  Lord ! 


260 


HENRY    HART    MILMAN. 


HYMN  BY  THE  EUPHRATES. 

O  THOU  that  wilt  not  break  the  bruised  reed, 

Nor  heap  fresh  ashes  on  the  mourner's  brow 
Nor  rend  anew  the  wounds  that  inly  bleed, 

The  only  balm  of  our  afflictions  thou, 
Teach  us  to  bear  thy  chastening  wrath,  O  God ! 
To  kiss  with  quivering  lips — still  humbly  kiss  thy 

rod! 
We  bless  thee,  Lord,  though  far  from  Judah's  land, 

Though  our  worn  limbs  are  black  with  stripes 

and  chains ; 
Though  for  stern  foes  we  till  the  burning  sand  ; 

And  reap,  for  others'  joy,  the  summer  plains ; 
We  bless  thee,  Lord,  for  thou  art  gracious  still, 
Even  though  this  last  black  drop  o'erflow  our  cup 

of  ill ! 
We  bless  thee  for  our  lost,  our  beauteous  child; 

The  tears,  less  bitter,  she  hath  made  us  weep ; 
The  weary  hours  her  graceful  sports  have  'guiled, 

And  the  dull  cares  her  voice  hath  sung  to  sleep! 
She  was  the  dove  of  hope  to  our  lorn  ark ; 
The  only  star  that  made  the  strangers'  sky  less  dark ! 

Our  dove  is  fallen  into  the  spoiler's  net; 

Rude  hands  defile  her  plumes,  so  chastely  white; 
To  the  bereaved  their  one  soft  star  is  set, 

And  all  above  is  sullen,  cheerless  night ! 
But  still  we  thank  thee  for  our  transient  bliss — 
Yet,  Lord,  to  scourge  our  sins  remain'd  no  way  but 

this ! 
As  when  our  Father  to  Mount  Moriah  led 

The  blessing's  heir,  his  age's  hope  and  joy, 
Pleased,  as  he  roam'd  along  with  dancing  tread, 

Chid  his  slow  sire,  the  fond,  officious  boy, 
And  laugh'd  in  sport  to  see  the  yellow  fire 
Climb  up  the  turf-built  shrine,  his  destined  funeral 

pyre—  ' 
Even  thus  our  joyous  child  went  lightly  on ; 

Bashfully  sportive,  timorously  gay, 
Her  white  foot  bounded  from  the  pavement  stone 

Like  some  light  bird  from  off  the  quivering  spray; 
And  back  she  glanced,  and  smiled  in  blamless  glee, 
The  cars,  and  helms,  and  spears,  and  mystic  dance 

to  see. 
By  thee,  O  Lord,  the  gracious  voice  was  sent 

That  bade  the  sire  his  murderous  task  forego : 
When  to  his  home  the  child  of  Abraham  went, 

His  mother's  tears  had  scarce  begun  to  flow. 
Alas !  and  lurks  there,  in  the  thicket's  shade, 
The  victim  to  replace  our  lost,  devoted  maid  ? 

Lord,  even  through  thee  to  hope  were  now  too  bold ; 

Yet  'twere  to  doubt  thy  mercy  to  despair. 
'Tis  anguish,  yet  'tis  comfort,  faint  and  cold, 

To  think  how  sad  we  are,  how  blest  we  were ! 
To  speak  of  her  is  wretchedness,  and  yet 
It  were  a  grief  more  deep  and  bitterer  to  forget ! 

0  Lord  our  God !  why  was  she  e'er  our  own  ? 

Why  is  she  not  our  own — our  treasure  still  ] 
We  could  have  pass'd  our  heavy  years  alone. 

Alas  !  is  this  to  bow  us  to  thy  will? 
Ah  !  even  our  humblest  prayers  we  make  repine, 
Nor  prostrate  thus  on  earth,  our  hearts  to  thee 
resign. 


Forgive,  forgive — even  should  our  full  hearts  break, 
The  broken  heart  thou  wilt  not,  Lord,  despise: 

Ah  !  thou  art  still  too  gracious  to  forsake, 
Though  thy  strong  hand  so  heavily  chastise. 

Hear  all  our  prayers,  hear  not  our  murmurs,  Lord; 

And,  though  our  lips  rebel,  still  make  thyself  adored. 


JEWISH  HYMN  IN  BABYLON. 

Gon  of  the  thunder !  from  whose  cloudy  seat 

The  fiery  winds  of  Desolation  flow : 
Father  of  vengeance  !  that  with  purple  feet, 

lake  a  full  wine-press,  tread'st  the  world  below. 
The  embattled  armies  wait  thy  sign  to  slay, 
Nor  springs  the  beast  of  havoc  on  his  prey, 
Nor  withering  Famine  walks  his  blasted  way, 
Till  thou  the  guilty  land  hast  seal'd  for  wo. 

God  of  the  rainbow  !  at  whose  gracious  sign 

The  billows  of  the  proud  their  rage  suppress : 
Father  of  mercies  !  at  one  word  of  thine 

An  Eden  blooms  in  the  waste  wilderness ! 
And  fountains  sparkle  in  the  arid  sands, 
And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens'  glancing  hands, 
And  marble  cities  crown  the  laughing  lands, 
And  pillar'd  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  thunders  broke — O  Lord  ! 

The  chariots  rattled  o'er  her  sunken  gate, 
Her  sons  were  wasted  by  the  Assyrian  sword, 

Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state ; 
And  heaps  her  ivory  palaces  became, 
Her  princes  wore  the  captive's  garb  of  shame, 
Her  temple  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame, 

For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest  cloud  of  fate. 

O'er  Judah's-  land  thy  rainbow,  Lord,  shall  beam, 
And  the  sad  city  lift  her  crownless  head ; 

And  songs  shall  wake,  and  dancing  footsteps  gleam, 
Where  broods  o'er  fallen  streets  the  silence  of 
the  dead. 

The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem's  gilded  towers. 

On  Carmel's  side  our  maidens  cull  the  flowers, 

To  deck,  at  blushing  eve,  their  bridal  bowers, 
And  angel  feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 

Thy  vengeance  gave  us  to  the  stranger's  hand, 

And  Abraham's  children  were  led  forth  for  slaves; 
With  fetter'd  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  land, 

Envying  our  fathers  in  their  peaceful  graves. 
The  stranger's  bread  with  bitter  tears  we  steep, 
And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 
'Neath  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep, 
Where  the  pale  willows  shade  Euphrates'  waves. 

The  born  in  sorrow' shall  bring  forth  in  joy; 

Thy  mercy,  Lord,  shall  lead  thy  children  home; 
He  that  went  forth  a  tender  yearling  boy, 

Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem's  streets  shall  come. 
And  Canaan's  vines  for  us  their  fruits  shall  bear, 
And  Hermon's  bees  their  honied  stores  prepare ; 
And  we  shall  kneel  again  in  thankful  prayer, 

Where,  o'er  the  cherub-seated  God,  full  blazed 
the  irradiate  dome. 


HENRY    HART    MILMAN. 


261 


ODE,  TO  THE  SAVIOUR. 

FOR  them  wert  born  of  woman  !  thou  didst  come, 
O  Holiest !  to  this  world  of  sin  and  gloom, 
Not  in  thy  dread  omnipotent  array ; 
And  not  by  thunders  strew'd 
Was  thy  tempestuous  road  ; 
Nor  indignation  burnt  before  thee  on  thy  way  ; 

But  thee,  a  soft  and  naked  child, 

Thy  mother  undented 

In  the  rude  manger  laid  to  rest 

From  off  her  virgin  breast. 

The  heavens  were  not  commanded  to  prepare 
A  gorgeous  canopy  of  golden  air ; 
Nor  stoop'd  their  lamps  th'  enthroned  fires  on  high: 
A  single  silent  star 
Came  wandering  from  afar, 
Gliding  uncheck'd  and  calm  along  the  liquid  sky; 

The  eastern  sages  leading  on, 

As  at  a  kingly  throne, 

To  lay  their  gold  and  odours  sweet 

Before  thy  infant  feet. 

The  earth  and  ocean  were  not  hush'd  to  hear 
Bright  harmony  from  every  starry  sphere ; 
Nor  at  thy  presence  brake  the  voice  of  song 
From  all  the  cherub  choirs, 
And  seraphs'  burning  lyres, 
Pour'd  through  the  host  of  heaven  the  charmed 

clouds  along. 

One  angel-troop  the  strain  began, 
Of  all  the  race  of  man 
By  simple  shepherds  heard  alone, 
That  soft  hosanna's  tone. 

And  when  thou  didst  depart,  no  car  of  flame 
To  bear  thee  hence  in  lambient  radiance  came; 
Nor  visible  angels  mourn'd  with  drooping  plumes: 
Nor  didst  thou  mount  on  high 
From  fatal  Calvary, 
With  all  thine  own  redeem'd  out  bursting  from 

their  tombs. 

For  thou  didst  bear  away  from  earth 
But  one  of  human  birth, 
The  dying  felon  by  thy  side,  to  be 
In  Paradise  with  thee. 

Nor  o'er  thy  cross  the  clouds  of  vengeance  brake ; 
A  little  while  the  conscious  earth  did  shake 
At  that  foul  deed  by  her  fierce  children  done ; 
A  few  dim  hours  of  day 
The  world  in  darkness  lay; 

Then  bask'd  in  bright  repose  beneath  the  cloud- 
less sun. 

While  thou  didst  sleep  within  the  tomb, 
Consenting  to  thy  doom  ; 
Ere  yet  the  white-robed  angel  shone 
Upon  the  sealed  stone. 

And  when  thou  didst  arise,  thou  didst  not  stand 
With  devastation  in  thy  red  right  hand, 
Plaguing  the  guilty  city's  murderous  crew : 

But  thou  didst  haste  to  meet 

Thy  mother's  coming  feet, 
And  bear  the  words  of  peace  unto  the  faithful  few. 


Then  calmly,  slowly  didst  thou  rise 
Into  thy  native  skies, 
Thy  human  form  dissolved  on  high 
In  its  own  radiancy. 


THE  MERRY  HEART. 

I  WOULD  not  from  the  wise  require 

The  lumber  of  their  learned  lore ; 
Nor  would  I  from  the  rich  desire 

A  single  counter  of  their  store. 
For  I  have  ease,  and  I  have  wealth, 

And  I  have  spirits  light  as  air ; 
And  more  than  wisdom,  more  than  wealth, 

A  merry  heart  that  laughs  at  care. 

At  once,  'tis  true,  two  witching  eyes 

Surprised  me  in  a  luckless  season, 
Turn'd  all  my  mirth  to  lonely  sighs, 

And  quite  subdued  my  better  reason. 
Yet  'twas  but  love  could  make  me  grieve, 

And  love  you  know's  a  reason  fair, 
And  much  improved,  as  I  believe, 

The  merry  heart,  that  laugh'd  at  care. 

So  now,  from  idle  wishes  clear, 

I  make  the  good  I  may  not  find ; 
Adown  the  stream  I  gently  steer, 

And  shift  my  sail  with  every  wind. 
And  half  by  nature,  half  by  reason, 

Can  still  with  pliant  heart  prepare, 
The  mind,  attuned  to  every  season, 

The  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 

Yet,  wrap  me  in  your  sweetest  dream, 

Ye  social  feelings  of  the  mind, 
Give,  sometimes  give  your  sunny  gleam, 

And  let  the  rest  good-humour  find. 
Yes,  let  me  hail  and  welcome  give 

To  every  joy  my  lot  may  share, 
And  pleased  and  pleasing  let  me  live 

With  merry  heart,  that  laughs  at  care. 


MARRIAGE  HYMN. 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet 
Moving  slow  our  solemn  feet, 
We  have  borne  thee  on  the  road 
To  the  virgin's  blest  abode ; 
With  thy  yellow  torches  gleaming, 
And  thy  scarlet  mantle  streaming, 
And  the  canopy  above 
Swaying  as  we  slowly  move. 
Thou  hast  left  the  joyous  feast, 
And  the  mirth  and  wine  have  ceased ; 
And  now  we  set  thee  down  before 
The  jealously-unclosing  door, 
That  the  favour'd  youth  admits 
Where  the  veiled  virgin  sits 
In  the  bliss  of  maiden  fear, 
Waiting  our  soft  tread  to  hear ; 
And  the  music's  brisker  din 
At  the  bridegroom's  entering  in, — 
Entering  in  a  welcome  guest 
To  the  chamber  of  his  rest. 


262 


HENRY    HART    MILMAN. 


EVENING  SONG  OF  MAIDENS. 

COME  away,  with  willing  feet 
Quit  the  close  and  breathless  street: 
Sultry  court  and  chamber  leave, 
Come  and  taste  the  balmy  eve, 
Where  the  grass  is  cool  and  green, 
And  the  verdant  laurels  screen 
All  whose  timid  footsteps  move 
With  the  quickening  stealth  of  love ; 
Where  Orontes'  waters  hold 
Mirrors  to  your  locks  of  gold, 
And  the  sacred  Daphne  weaves 
Canopies  of  trembling  leaves. 

Come  away,  the  heavens  above 
Just  have  light  enough  for  love ; 
And  the  crystal  Hesperus 
Lights  his  dew-fed  lamp  for  us. 
Come,  the  wider  shades  are  falling, 
And  the  amorous  birds  are  calling 
Each  his  wandering  mate  to  rest 
In  the  close  and  downy  nest; 
And  the  snowy  orange  flowers, 
And  the  creeping  jasmine  bowers, 
From  their  swingmg  censers  cast 
Their  richest  odours,  and  their  last, 

Come,  the  busy  day  is  o'er, 
Flying  spindle  gleams  no  more  ; 
Wait  not  till  the  twilight  gloom 
Darken  o'er  the  embroider'd  loom. 
Leave  the  toilsome  task  undone, 
Leave  the  golden  web  unspun. 
Hark,  along  the  humming  air 
Home  the  laden  bees  repair ; 
And  the  bright  and  dashing  rill 
From  the  side  of  every  hill, 
With  a  clearer,  deeper  sound, 
Cools  the  freshening  air  around. 

Come,  for  though  our  God  the  Sun 
Now  his  fiery  course  hath  run  ; 
There  the  western  waves  among 
Lingers  not  his  glory  long ; 
There  the  couch  awaits  him  still, 
Wrought  by  Jove-born  Vulcan's  skill 
Of  the  thrice-refined  gold, 
With  its  wings  that  wide  unfold, 
O'er  the  surface  of  the  deep 
To  waft  the  bright-hair'd  god  asleep 
From  the  Hesperian  islands  blest, 
From  the  rich  and  purple  West, 
To  where  the  swarthy  Indians  lave 
In  the  farthest  Eastern  wave. 

There  the  Mora  on  tiptoe  stands, 
Holding  in  her  rosy  hands 
All  the  amber-studded  reins 
Of  the  steeds  with  fiery  manes, 
For  the  sky-borne  charioteer 
To  start,  upon  his  new  career. 
Come,  for  when  his  glories  break 
Every  sleeping  maid  must  wake. 
Brief  be  then  onr  stolen  hour 
In  the  fragrant  Daphne's  bower ; 


Brief  our  twilight  dance  must  be 
Underneath  the  cypress  tree. 
Come  away,  and  make  no  stay, 
Youth  and  maiden,  come  away. 


CHORUS. 


of  kings  !  and  Lord  of  lords! 
Thus  we  move,  our  sad  steps  timing 
To  our  cymbals'  feeblest  chiming, 
Where  thy  house  its  rest  accords. 
Chased  and  wounded  birds  are  we, 
Through  the  dark  air  fled  to  thee  ; 
To  the  shadow  of  thy  wings, 
Lord  of  lords  !  and  King  of  kings  ! 

Behold,  O  Lord  !  the  heathen  tread 
The  branches  of  thy  fruitful  vine, 
That  its  luxurious  tendrils  spread 

O'er  all  the  hills  of  Palestine. 
And  now  the  wild  boar  comes  to  waste 
Even  us,  the  greenest  boughs  and  last, 
That,  drinking  of  thy  choicest  dew, 
On  Zion's  hill,  in  beauty  grew. 

No  !  by  the  marvels  of  thine  hand, 
Thou  still  wilt  save  thy  chosen  land  ! 
By  all  thine  ancient  mercies  shown, 
By  all  our  fathers'  foes  o'erthrown  ; 
By  the  Egyptian's  car-borne  host, 
Scatter'd  on  the  Red  Sea  coast  ; 
By  that  wide  and  bloodless  slaughter 
Underneath  the  drowning  water. 

Like  us  in  utter  helplessness, 
In  their  last  and  worst  distress  — 
On  the  sand  and  sea-weed  lying, 
Israel  pour'd  her  doleful  sighing; 
While  before  the  deep  sea  flow'd, 
And  behind  fierce  Egypt  rode  — 
To  their  fathers'  God  they  pray'd, 
To  the  Lord  of  hosts  for  aid. 

On  the  margin  of  the  flood 

With  lifted  rod  the  prophet  stood  ; 

And  the  summon'd  east  wind  blew, 

And  aside  it  sternly  threw 

The  gather'd  waves,  that  took  their  stand, 

Like  crystal  rocks,  on  either  hand, 

Or  walls  of  sea-green  marble  piled 

Round  some  irregular  city  wild. 

Then  the  light  of  morning  lay 
On  the  wonder-paved  way, 
Where  the  treasures  of  the  deep 
In  their  caves  of  coral  sleep. 
The  profound  abysses,  where 
Was  never  sound  from  upper  air, 
Rang  with  Israel's  chanted  words, 
King  of  kings  !  and  Lord  of  lords  ! 

Then  with  bow  and  banner  glancing, 

On  exulting  Egypt  came, 
With  her  chosen  horseman  prancing, 

And  her  cars  on  wheels  of  flame, 
In  a  rich  and  boastful  ring, 
All  around  her  furious  king. 


HENRY    HART    MILMAN. 


263 


But  the  Lord  from  out  his  cloud, 
The  Lord  look'd  down  upon  the  proud ; 
And  the  host  drave  heavily 
Down  the  deep  bosom  of  the  sea. 

With  a  quick  and  sudden  swell 

Prone  the  liquid  ramparts  fell ; 

Over  horse,  and  over  car, 

Over  every  man  of  war, 

Over  Pharaoh's  crown  of  gold 

The  loud  thundering  billows  roll'd. 

As  the  level  waters  spread 

Down  they  sank,  they  sank  like  lead, 

Down  without  a  cry  or  groan. 

And  the  morning  sun,  that  shone 

On  myriads  of  bright-armed  men, 

Its  meridian  radiance  then 

Cast  on  a  wide  sea,  heaving  as  of  yore, 

Against  a  silent,  solitary  shore. 


FUNERAL  ANTHEM. 

BROTHER,  thou  hast  gone  before  us, 

And  thy  saintly  soul  is  flown 
Where  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye, 

And  sorrow  is  unknown; 
From  the  burden  of  the  flesh, 

And  from  care  and  fear  released, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

The  toilsome  way  thou'st  travell'd  o'er, 

And  borne  the  heavy  load, 
But  Christ  hath  taught  thy  languid  feet 

To  reach  his  blest  abode. 
Thou  'rt  sleeping  now,  like  Lazarus 

Upon  his  Father's  breast, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Sin  can  never  taint  thee  now, 

Nor  doubt  thy  faith  assail, 
Nor  thy  meek  trust  in  Jesus  Christ 

And  the  Holy  Spirit  fail. 
And  there  thou  'rt  sure  to  meet  the  good, 

Whom  on  earth  thou  loved st  best, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

"Earth  to  earth,"  and  "dust  to  dust," 

The  solemn  priest  hath  said, 
So  we  lay  the  turf  above  thee  now, 

And  we  seal  thy  narrow  bed  : 
But  thy  spirit,  brother,  soars  away 

Among  thy  faithful  blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

And  when  the  Lord  shall  summon  us, 

Whom  thou  hast  left  behind. 
May  we.  untainted  by  the  world, 

As  sure  a  welcome  find  ; 
May  each,  like  thee,  depart  in  peace, 

To  be  a  glorious  guest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  USURER. 

Fazio.  Dost  thou  know,  Bianca, 
Our  neighbour,  old  Bartolo  1 

Blanco,  O  yes,  yes — 

That  yellow  wretch,  that  lo&ks  as  he  were  stain'd 
With  watching  his  own  gold ;  every  one  knows  him, 
Enough  to  loathe  him.     Not  a  friend  hath  he, 
Nor  kindred,  nor  familiar ;  not  a  slave, 
Not  a  lean  serving  wench  ;  nothing  e'er  enter'd 
But  his  spare  self  within  his  jealous  doors, 
Except  a  wandering  rat ;  and  that,  they  say, 
Was  famine-struck,  and  died  there.    What  of  him? 

Fazio,  Yet  he,  Bianca,  he  is  of  our  rich  ones. 
There's  not  a  galliot  on  the  sea  but  bears 
A  venture  of  Bartolo's ;  not  an  acre, 
Nay,  not  a  villa  of  our  proudest  princes, 
But  he  hath  cramp'd  it  with  a  mortgage ;  he, 
He  only  stocks  our  prisons  with  his  debtors. 
I  saw  him  creeping  home  last  night ;  he  shudder'd 
As  he  urilock'd  his  door,  and  look'd  around, 
As  if  he  thought  that  very  breath  of  wind 
Were  some  keen  thief;  and  when  he  lock'd  him  in, 
I  heard  the  grating  key  turn  twenty  times, 
To  try  if  all  were  safe.     I  look'd  again 
From  our  high  window  by  mere  chance,  and  saw 
The  motion  of  his  scanty,  moping  lantern, 
And,  where  his  wind-rent  lattice  was  ill  stuff 'd 
With  tatter' d  remnants  of  a  money-bag, 
Through  cobwebs  and  thick  dust  I  spied  his  face, 
Like  some  dry,  wither-boned  anatomy, 
Through  a  huge  chest-lid,  jealously  and  scantily 
Uplifted,  peering  upon  coin  and  jewels, 
Ingots  and  wedges,  and  broad  bars  of  gold, 
Upon  whose  lustre  the  wan  light  shone  muddily, 
As  though  the  New  World  had  outrun  the  Spaniard, 
And  emptied  all  its  mines  in  that  coarse  hovel. 
His  ferret  eyes  gloated  as  wanton  o'er  them 
As  a  gross  satyr  on  a  sleeping  nymph ; 
And  then,  as  he  heard  something  like  a  sound, 
He  clapp'd  the  lid  to,  and  blew  out  the  lantern ; 
But  I,  Bianca,  hurried  to  thy  arms, 
And  thank'd  my  God  that  I  had  braver  riches. 


BENINA  TO  BELSHAZZAR. 

— I  hear  abroad 

The  exultation  of  unfetter'd  earth  ! — 
From  east  to  west  they  lift  their  trampled  necks, 
The  indignant  nations:  earth  breaks  out  in  scorn; 
The  valleys  dance  and  sing;  the  mountains  shake 
Their  cedar-crowned  tops  !    The  strangers  crowd 
To  gaze  upon  the  howling  wilderness, 
Where  stood  the  Queen  of  Nations.  Lo !  even  now, 
Lazy  Euphrates  rolls  his  sullen  waves          [reeds. 
Through  wastes,  and  but  reflects  his  own  thick 
I  hear  the  bitterns  shriek,  the  dragons  cry ; 
I  see  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  owl 
Gliding  where  now  are  laughter-echoing  palaces! 
O'er  the  vast  plain  I  see  the  mighty  tombs 
Of  kings,  in  sad  and  Iroken  whiteness  gleam 
Beneath  the  o'ergrown  cypress — but  no  tomb 
Bears  record,  Babylon,  of  thy  last  lord  ; 
Even  monuments  are  silent  of  Belshazzar ! 


JOHN    KEBLE. 


I  HAVE  been  able  to  learn  scarcely  any  thing 
of  the  history  of  Mr.  KEBLE.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Oxford,  entered  holy  orders,  and  was 
for  some  time  pastor  of  a  rural  congregation, 
to  whose  spiritual  interests  he  devoted  him- 
self with  untiring  ardour  and  affection.  He 
was  subsequently  elected  Professor  of  Poetry 
in  the  University  of  Oxford,  and  he  has  been 
distinguished  as  one  of  those  eminent  scholars 
and  divines,  among  whom  are  NEWMAN,  HOOK 
and  PUSEY,  who  have  since  shaken  the  reli- 
gious world  with  some  of  the  most  ingenious 
and  able  theological  discussions  of  modern 
times,  in  the  Oxford  Tracts. 


Mr.  KEBLE  is  known  as  a  poet  chiefly 
through  The  Christian  Year,  which  was  first 
published  in  1827.  It  has  passed  through 
more  than  thirty  editions  in  England,  and  has 
been  several  times  reprinted  in  this  country. 
The  American  impressions  contain  a  preface 
and  other  valuable  additions  by  the  author's 
friend,  the  Rt.  Rev.  Dr.  DOANE,  Bishop  of 
the  Episcopal  church  in  New  Jersey.  Be- 
side this,  he  has  written  The  Child's  Chris- 
tian Year;  some  of  the  finest  pieces  in  the 
Lyra  Jlpostolica,  and  a  new  translation  of  the 
Psalms  of  David.  I  believe  Mr.  KEBLE  is 
now  about  fifty  years  of  age. 


ADVENT  SUNDAY. 

AWAKE — again  the  Gospel-trump  is  blown — 
From  year  to  year  it  swells  with  louder  tone ; 
From  year  to  year  the  signs  of  wrath 
Are  gathering  round  the  Judge's  path : 
Strange"  words  fulfill'd,  and  mighty  works  achieved, 
And  truth  in  all  the  world  both  hated  and  believed. 

Awake !  why  linger  in  the  gorgeous  town, 
Sworn  liegemen  of  the  Cross  and  thorny  crown  1 
Up,  from  your  beds  of  sloth,  for  shame, 
Speed  to  the  eastern  mount  like  flame, 
Nor  wonder,  should  ye  find  your  king  in  tears, 
E'en  with  the  loud  Hosanna  ringing  in  his  ears. 

Alas  !  no  need  to  rouse  them  :  long  ago 
They  are  gone  forth  to  swell  Messiah's  show ; 
With  glittering  robes  and  garlands  sweet 
They  strew  the  ground  beneath  his  feet : 
All  but  your  hearts  are  there — O  doom'd  to  prove 
The  arrows  wing'd  in  heaven  for  faith  that  will  not 
love ! 

Meanwhile  He  paces  through  the  adoring  crowd, 
Calm  as  the  march  of  some  majestic  cloud, 

That  o'er  wild  scenes  of  ocean-war 

Holds  its  course  in  heaven  afar : 
Even  so,  heart-searching  Lord,  as  years  roll  on, 
Thou    keepest   silent  watch  from  thy  triumphal 
throne ; 

Even  so,  the  world  is  thronging  round  to  gaze 
On  the  dread  vision  of  the  latter  days, 

Constraint!  to  own  Thee,  but  in  heart 

Prepared  to  take  Barabbas'  part : 
"  Hosanna"  now,  to-morrow  "  Crucify," 
The  changeful  burden  still  of  their  rude  lawless  cry. 

Yet,  in  that  throng  of  selfish  bf-arts  untrue, 
Thy  sad  eye  rests  upon  thy  faithful  few  ; 
264 


Children  and  childlike  souls  are  there, 

Blind  Bartimeus'  humble  prayer, 
And  Lazarus  waken'd  from  his  four  days'  sleep, 
Enduring  life  again,  that  Passover  to  keep. 

And  fast  beside  the  olive-border'd  way  [stay, 

Stands  the  bless'd  home,  where  Jesus  dcign'd  to 
And  peaceful  home,  to  Zeal  sincere 
The  heavenly  Contemplation  dear, 
Where  Martha  loved  to  wait  with  reverence  meet, 
And  wiser  Mary  linger'd  at  thy  sacred  feet. 

Still,  through  decaving  ages  as  they  glide, 
Thou  lovest  thy  chosen  remnant  to  divide ; 
Sprinkled  along  the  waste  of  years, 
Full  many  a  soft  green  isle  appears: 
Pause  where  we  may  upon  the  desert  road, 
Some  shelter  is  in  sight,  some  sacred,  safe  abode. 

When  withering  blasts  of  error  swept  the  sky,* 
And  Love's  last  flower  seern'd  fain  to  droop  and  die, 

How  sweet,  how  lone,  the  ray  benign, 

On  shelter'd  nooks  of  Palestine  ! 
Then  to  his  early  home  did  Love  repair,  [air. 

And  cheer'd  bis  sickening  heart  with  his  own  native 

Years  roll  away  :  again  the  tide  of  crime 

Has  swept  thy  footsteps  from  the  favour'd  clime. 

Where  shall  the  holy  Cross  find  rest? 

On  a  crown'd  monarch's-j-  mailed  breast : 
Like  some  bright  angel  o'er  the  darkling  scene, 
Through  court  and  camp  he  holds  his  heavenward 
course  serene. 

A  fouler  vision  yet;  an  age  of  light, 
Light  without  love,  glares  on  the  aching  sight : 
O  who  can  tell  how  calm  and  sweet, 
Meek  Walton  !  sbows  thy  green  retreat, 
When  wearied  with  the  tale  thy  times  disclose, 
The  eye  first  finds  thee  out  in  thy  secure  repose  1 

*  Ariruiism  in  the  fourth  r.entnry. 
f  St.  Louis  in  the  thirteenth  century. 


JOHN    KEBLE. 


265 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FIELD. 

SWEET  nurslings  of  the  vernal  skies, 

Bathed  in  soft  airs,  and  fed  with  dew, 
What  more  than  magic  in  you  lies, 

To  fill  the  heart's  fond  view  ] 
In  childhood's  sports,  companions  gay, 
In  sorrow,  on  life's  downward  way, 
How  soothing  !  in  our  last  decay 
Memorials  prompt  and  true. 

Relics  ye  are  of  Eden's  bowers, 
As  pure,  as  fragrant,  and  as  fair, 

As  when  ye  crown'd  the  sunshine  hours 
Of  happy  wanderers  there. 

Fall'n  all  beside — the  world  of  life, 

How  is  it  stain'd  with  fear  and  strife  ! 

In  Reason's  world  what  storms  are  rife, 
What  passions  range  and  glare  ! 

But  cheerful  and  unchanged  the  while 
Your  first  and  perfect  form  ye  show, 
The  same  that  won  Eve's  matron  smile 

In  the  world's  opening  glow. 
The  stars  of  heaven  a  course  are  taught 
Too  high  above  our  human  thought ; — 
Ye  may  be  found  if  ye  are  sought, 
And  as  we  gaze,  we  know. 

Ye  dwell  beside  our  paths  and  homes, 

Our  paths  of  sin,  our  homes  of  sorrow, 
And  guilty  man,  where'er  he  roams, 
Your  innocent  mirth  may  borrow. 
The  birds  of  air  before  us  fleet, 
They  cannot  brook  our  shame  to  meet — 
But  we  may  taste  your  solace  sweet 
And  come  again  to-morrow. 

Ye  fearless  in  your  nests  abide — 

Nor  may  we  scorn,  too  proudly  wise, 

Your  silent  lessons,  undescried 
By  all  but  lowly  eyes  : 

For  ye  could  draw  the  admiring  gaze 

Of  Him  who  worlds  and  hearts  surveys  ; 

Your  order  wild,  your  fragrant  maze, 
He  taught  us  how  to  prize. 

Ye  felt  your  Maker's  smile  that  hour, 

As  when  He  paused  and  own'd  you  good 
His  blessing  on  earth's  primal  bower, 

Ye  felt  it  all  renew'd. 
What  care  ye  now,  if  winter's  storm 
Sweep  ruthless  o'er  each  silken  form  1 
Christ's  blessing  at  your  heart  is  warm, 
Ye  fear  no  vexing  mood. 

Alas  !  of  thousand  bosoms  kind, 

That  daily  court  you  and  caress, 
How  few  the  happy  secret  find 

Of  your  calm  loveliness  ! 
"  Live  for  to-day  !  to-morrow's  light 
To-morrow's  cares  shall  bring  to  sight, 
Go  sleep  like  closing  flowers  at  night, 
And  heaven  thy  morn  will  bless." 
34 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

LESSONS  sweet  of  spring  returning, 

Welcome  to  the  thoughtful  heart ! 
May  I  call  ye  sense  or  learning, 

Instinct  pure,  or  heaven-taught  art  1 
Be  your  title  what  it  may, 
Sweet  and  lengthening  April  day, 
While  with  you  the  soul  is  free, 
Ranging  wild  o'er  hill  and  lea. 

Soft  as  Memnon's  harp  at  morning, 

To  the  inward  ear  devout, 
Touch'd  by  light,  with  heavenly  warning 

Your  transporting  chords  ring  out. 
Every  leaf  in  every  nook, 
Every  wave  in  every  brook, 
Chanting  with  a  solemn  voice, 
Minds  us  of  our  better  choice. 

Needs  no  show  of  mountain  hoary, 

Winding  shore  or  deepening  glen, 
Where  the  landscape  in  its  glory 

Teaches  truth  to  wandering  men: 
Give  true  hearts  but  earth  and  sky, 
And  some  flowers  to  bloom  and  die, — 
Homely  scenes  and  simple  views 
Lowly  thoughts  may  best  infuse. 

See  the  soft  green  willow  springing 
Where  the  waters  gently  pass, 

Every  way  her  free  arms  flinging 
O'er  the  moss  and  reedy  grass. 

Long  ere  winter  blasts  are  fled, 

See  her  tipp'd  with  vernal  red, 

And  her  kindly  flower  display'd 

Ere  her  leaf  can  cast  a  shade. 

Though  the  rudest  hand  assail  her, 

Patiently  she  droops  awhile, 
But  when  showers  and  breezes  hail  her, 

Wears  again  her  willing  smile. 
Thus  I  learn  contentment's  power 
From  the  slighted  willow  bower, 
Ready  to  give  thanks  and  live 
On  the  least  that  Heaven  may  give. 

If,  the  quiet  brooklet  leaving, 

Up  the  stony  vale  I  wind, 
Haply  half  in  fancy  grieving 

For  the  shades  I  leave  behind, 
By  the  dusty  wayside  drear, 
Nightingales  with  joyous  cheer 
Sing,  my  sadness  to  reprove, 
Gladlier  than  in  cultured  grove. 

Where  the  thickest  boughs  are  twining 
Of  the  greenest,  darkest  tree, 

There  they  plunge,  the  light  declining — 
All  may  hear,  but  none  may  see. 

Fearless  of  the  passing  hoof, 

Hardly  will  they  fleet  aloof; 

So  they  live  in  modest  ways, 

Trust  entire,  and  ceaseless  praise. 
Z 


266 


JOHN    KEBLE. 


FOREST  LEAVES  IN   AUTUMN. 

RED  o'er  the  forest  peers  the  setting  sun, 
The  line  of  yellow  light  dies  fast  away 

That  crown'd  the  eastern  copse  ;  and  chill  and  dun 
Falls  on  the  moor  the  brief  November  day. 

Now  the  tired  hunter  winds  a  parting  note, 
And  echo  bids  good-night  from  every  glade ; 

Yet  wait  awhile,  and  see  the  calm  leaves  float 
Each  to  his  rest  beneath  their  parent  shade. 

How  like  decaying  life  they  seem  to  glide  ! 

And  yet  no  second  spring  have  they  in  store, 
But  where  they  fall  forgotten  to  abide, 

Is  all  their  portion,  and  they  ask  no  more. 

Soon  o'er  their  heads  blithe  April  airs  shall  sing, 
A  thousand  wild-flowers  round  them  shall  unfold, 

The  green  buds  glisten  in  the  dews  of  spring, 
And  all  be  vernal  rapture  as  of  old. 

Unconscious  they  in  waste  oblivion  lie, 

In  all  the  world  of  busy  life  around 
No  thought  of  them ;  in  all  the  bounteous  sky 

No  drop,  for  them,  of  kindly  influence  found. 

Man's  portion  is  to  die  and  rise  again — 

Yet  he  complains,  while  these  unmurmuring  part 

With  their  sweet  lives,  as  pure  from  sin  and  stain, 
As  his  when  Eden  held  his  virgin  heart. 

And  haply,  half  unblamed  his  murmuring  voice 
Might  sound  in  heaven,  were  all  his  second  life 

Only  the  first  renew'd — the  heathen's  choice, 
A  round  of  listless  joy  and  weary  strife. 

For  dreary  were  this  earth,  if  earth  were  all, 
Though  brighten'd  oft  by  dear  affection's  kiss ; — 

Who  for  the  spangles  wears  the  funeral  pall  ] 
But  catch  a  gleam  beyond  it,  and  'tis  bliss. 

Heavy  and  dull  this  frame  of  limbs  and  heart, 
Whether  slow  creeping  on  cold  earth,  or  borne 

On  lofty  steed,  or  loftier  prow,  we  dart 

O'er  wave  or  field  :  yet  breezes  laugh  to  scorn. 

Our  puny  speed,  and  birds,  and  clouds  in  heaven, 
And  fish,  like  living  shafts  that  pierce  the  main, 

And  stars  that  shoot  through  freezing  air  at  even — 
WTho  but  would  follow,  might  he  break  his  chain? 

And  thou  shalt  break  it  soon  ;  the  grovelling  worm 
Shall  find  his  wings,  and  soar  as  fast  and  free 

As  his  transfigured  Lord  with  lightning  form 
And  snowy  vest — such  grace  He  won  for  thee. 

When  from  the  grave  he  sprung  at  dawn  of  morn, 
And  led  thro'  boundless  air  thy  conquering  road, 

Leaving  a  glorious  track,  where  saints  new-born 
Might  fearless  follow  to  their  blest  abode. 

But  first,  by  many  a  stern  and  fiery  blast 

The  world's  rude  furnace  must  thy  blood  refine, 

And  many  a  gale  of  keenest  wo  be  pass'd, 
Till  every  pulse  beat  true  to  airs  divine ; 

Till  every  limb  obey  the  mounting  soul, 

The  mounting  soul,  the  call  by  Jesus  given. 

He  who  the  stormy  heart  can  so  control 
The  laggard  body  soon  will  waft  to  heaven. 


DIMNESS. 

OF  the  bright  things  in  earth  and  air 
How  little  can  the  heart  embrace  ! 

Soft  shades  and^gleaming  lights  are  there — 
I  know  it  well,  but  cannot  trace. 

Mine  eye  unworthy  seems  to  read 

One  page  of  Nature's  beauteous  book  : 

It  lies  before  me,  fair  outspread— 
I  only  cast  a  wishful  look. 

I  cannot  paint  to  Memory's  eye 

The  scene,  the  glance,  I  dearest  love — 

Unchanged  themselves,  in  me  they  die, 
Or  faint,  or  false,  their  shadows  prove. 

In  vain,  with  dull  and  tuneless  ear, 

I  linger  by  soft  music's  cell, 
And  in  my  heart  of  hearts  would  hear 

What  to  her  own  she  deigns  to  tell. 

'Tis  misty  all,  both  sight  and  sound — 
I  only  know  'tis  fair  and  sweet — 

'Tis  wandering  on  enchanted  ground 
With  dizzy  brow  and  tottering  feet. 

But  patience  !   there  may  come  a  time 
When  these  dull  cars  shall  scan  aright 

Strains,  that  outring  earth's  drowsy  chime, 
As  heaven  outshines  the  taper's  light. 

These  eyes,  that  dazzled  now  and  weak 
At  glancing  motes  in  sunshine  wink, 

Shall  see  the  King's  full  glory  break, 
Nor  from  the  blissful  vision  shrink : 

Though  scarcely  now  their  laggard  glance 
Reach  to  an  arrow's  flight,  that  day 

They  shall  behold,  and  not  in  trance, 
The  region  "  very  far  away." 

If  memory  sometimes  at  our  spell 
Refuse  to  speak,  or  speak  amiss, 

We  shall  not  need  her  where  we  dwell, 
Ever  in  sight  of  all  our  bliss. 

Meanwhile,  if  over  sea  or  sky, 

Some  tender  lights  unnoticed  fleet, 

Or  on  loved  features  dawn  and  die, 
Unread,  to  us,  their  lesson  sweet ; 

Yet  are  there  saddening  sights  around, 
Which  heaven,  in  mercy,  spares  us  too, 

And  we  see  far  in  holy  ground, 
If  duly  purged  our  mental  view. 

The  distant  landscape  draws  not  nigh 
For  all  our  gazing  ;  but  the  soul, 

That  upward  looks,  may  still  descry 
Nearer,  each  day,  the  brightening  goal. 

And  thou,  too  curious  ear,  that  fain 
Wouldst  thread  the  maze  of  harmony, 

Content  thee  with  one  simple  strain, 
The  lowlier,  sure,  the  worthier  thee  ; 

Till  thou  art  duly  train'd,  and  taught 
The  concord  sweet  of  love  divine  : 

Then,  with  that  inward  music  fraught, 
For  ever  rise,  and  sing,  and  shine. 


JOHN    KEBLE. 


267 


Thus  bad  and  good  their  several  warnings  give 
Of  His  approach,  whom  none  may  see  and  live  : 
Faith's  ear,  with  awful  still  delight, 
Counts  them  like  minute  bells  at  night, 
Keeping  the  heart  awake  till  dawn  of  morn, 
While  to  her  funeral  pile  this  aged  world  is  borne. 

But  what  are  Heaven's  alarms  to  hearts  that  cower 
In  wilful  slumber,  deepening  every  hour, 
That  draw  their  curtains  closer  round, 
The  nearer  swells  the  trumpet's  sound  1 
Lord,  ere  our  trembling  lamps  sink  down  and  die, 
Touch  us  with  chastening  hand,  and  make  us  feel 
Thee  nigh. 


ADDRESS   TO  POETS. 

YE  whose  hearts  are  beating  high 
With  the  pulse  of  poesy, 
Heirs  of  more  than  royal  race, 
Framed  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace, 
God's  own  work  to  do  on  earth, 

(If  the  word  be  not  too  bold,) 
Giving  virtue  a  new  birth, 

And  a  life  that  ne'er  grows  old — 

Sovereign  masters  of  all  hearts  ! 
Know  ye  who  hath  set  your  parts  1 
He,  who  gave  you  breath  to  sing, 
By  whose  strength  ye  sweep  the  string, 
He  hath  chosen  you  to  lead 

His  hosannas  here  below  ; — 
Mount,  and  claim  your  glorious  meed  ; 

Linger  not  with  sin  and  wo. 

But  if  ye  should  hold  your  peace, 
Deem  not  that  the  song  would  cease — 
Angels  round  His  glory-throne, 
Stars,  His  guiding  hand  that  own, 
Flowers,  that  grow  beneath  our  feet, 

Stones,  in  earth's  dark  womb  that  rest 
High  and  low  in  choir  shall  meet, 

Ere  His  name  shall  be  unblest. 

Lord,  by  every  minstrel  tongue 
Be  thy  praise  so  duly  sung, 
That  thine  angels' 'harps  may  ne'er 
Fail  to  find  fit  echoing  here  ! 
We  the  while,  of  meaner  birth, 

Who  in  that  divinest  spell 
Dare  not  hope  to  join  on  earth, 

Give  us  grace  to  listen  well. 

But  should  thankless  silence  seal 
Lips  that  might  half-heaven  reveal — 
Should  bards  in  idol-hymns  profane 
The  sacred  soul-enthralling  strain, 
(As  in  this  bad  world  below 

Noblest  things  find  vilest  using,) 
Then,  thy  power  and  mercy  show, 

In  vile  things  noble  breath  infusing. 

Then  waken  into  sound  divine 
The  very  pavement  of  thy  shrine, 


Till  we,  like  heaven's  star-sprinkled  floor, 
Faintly  give  back  what  we  adore, 
Childlike  though  the  voices  be, 

And  untunable  the  parts, 
Thou  wilt  own  the  minstrelsy, 

If  it  flow  from  childlike  hearts. 


THE  UNITED  STATES. 

TYRE  of  the  farther  west !  be  thou  too  warn'd, 
Whose  eagle  wings  thine  own  green  world  o'er- 
spread, 

Touching  two  oceans :  wherefore  hast  thou  scorn'd 
Thy  fathers'  God,  O  proud  and  full  of  bread] 

Why  lies  the  cross  unhonour'd  on  thy  ground, 
While  in  mid-air  thy  stars  and  arrows  flaunt1? 

That  sheaf  of  darts,  will  it  not  fall  unbound, 
Except,  disrobed  of  thy  vain  earthly  vaunt, 
Thou  bring  it  to  be  bless'd   where  saints  and 
angels  haunt  ] 

The  holy  seed,  by  Heaven's  peculiar  grace, 
Is  rooted  here  and  there  in  thy  dark  woods ; 

But  many  a  rank  weed  round  it  grows  apace, 
And  Mammon  builds  beside  thy  mighty  floods, 

O'ertopping  nature,  braving  nature's  God  ; 

Oh  while  thou  yet  hast  room,  fair,  fruitful  land, 

Ere  war  and  want  have  stain'd  thy  virgin  sod, 
Mark  thee  a  place  on  high,  a  glorious  stand, 
Whence  truth  her  sign  may  make  o'er  forest, 
lake,  and  strand. 

Eastward,  this  hour,  perchance  thou  turnest  thine 
Listening  if  haply  with  the  surging  sea       [ear, 

Blend  sounds  of  ruin  from  a  land  once  dear 
To  thee  and  Heaven.     O  trying  hour  for  thee ! 

Tyre  mock'd  when  Salem  fell ;  where  now  is  Tyre  ? 
Heaven  was  against  her.  Nations  thick  as  waves 

Burst  o'er  her  walls,  to  ocean  doom'd  and  fire; 
And  now  the  tideless  water  idly  laves 
Her  towers,  and  lone  sands  heap  her  crowned 
merchants'  graves. 


CHAMPIONS  OF   THE  TRUTH. 

"Whoshall  go  forus?"  Andlsaid,  "Here  ami:  sendme." 

DULL  thunders  moan  around  the  Temple  rock, 

And  deep  in  hollow  caves,  far  underneath, 
The  lonely  watchman  feels  the  sullen  shock, 

His  footsteps  timing  as  the  low  winds  breathe ; 
Hark  !.  from  the  Shrine  is  ask'd,  What  steadfast 

heart 
Dares  in  the  storm  go  forth  ?     Who  takes  the 

Almighty's  part  1 

And  with  a  bold  gleam  flush'd,  full  many  a  brow 

Is  raised  to  say,  "  Behold  me,  Lord,  and  send  !" 

But  ere  the  words  be  breathed,  some  broken  vow 

Remember'd,  ties  the  tongue ;  and  sadly  blend 

With  faith's  pure  incense,clouds  of  conscience  dim, 

And  faltering  tones  of  guilt  mar  the  Confessor's 

hymn. 


CHARLES    WOLFE. 


THIS  poet  was  born  in  Dublin,  on  the  four- 
teenth of  December,  1791.  On  the  death  of 
his  father,  the  family  removed  to  England, 
where  they  resided  several  years.  In  1805 
young  WOLFE  was  placed  at  the  Winchester 
School,  where  he  remained  until  1809,  when 
he  entered  the  university  of  his  native  city. 
Here  he  was  distinguished  as  a  classical  scho- 
lar, and  for  his  abilities  as  a  poet.  At  a  very 
early  age,  while  at  Winchester,  he  had  written 
verses  remarkable  as  the  productions  of  one 
so  young,  and  before  completing  his  twenty- 
first  year,  he  gained  the  reputation  of  being 
the  first  genius  in  the  university,  by  two  poems 
of  considerable  merit,  Jugurtha  and  Patriot- 
ism, for  the  last  of  which  a  prize  was  given 
by  one  of  the  college  societies. 

In  the  autumn  of  1817,  Mr.  WOLFE  entered 
into  holy  orders,  and  he  soon  after  obtained  a 
living  in  an  obscure  parish  of  Tyrone  county, 
arid  subsequently  the  curacy  of  Castle  Caul- 
field.  He  devoted  himself  with  untiring  assi- 
duity to  the  duties  of  his  profession  until  the 
spring  of  1821,  when  symptoms  of  consump- 
tion made  their  appearance,  and  he  was  in- 
duced to  visit  Scotland,  to  consult  a  physician 


distinguished  for  his  skill  in  the  treatment  of 
pulmonary  complaints.  This  visit  was  pro- 
ductive of  no  benefit.  WOLFE  returned  to  his 
cure,  and  soon  after  went  to  .reside  in  Devon- 
shire, and  subsequently  at  Bordeaux  in  the 
south  of  France.  The  summer  months  of 
1822  were  passed  with  his  friend  Archdeacon 
Russell,  in  Dublin.  In  November  of  that 
year  he  removed  to  the  Cove  of  Cork,  where 
he  died  on  the  twenty-first  of  February,  1822, 
in  the  thirty-second  year  of  his  age. 

W'OLFE  is  chiefly  known  as  the  writer  of 
the  lines  on  the  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore, 
which  were  originally  printed  anonymously, 
and  attributed  in  turn  to  nearly  every  eminent 
poet  of  the  day.  Their  authorship  has  been  a 
subject  of  some  controversy  since  the  death 
of  W^OLFE,  but  the  question  has  been  put  to 
rest  by  an  article  in  the  Dublin  University 
Magazine  for  December,  1842,  in  which  the 
proofs  that  it  is  by  WOLFE  are  demonstrative. 
Several  of  his  other  pieces  are  distinguished  for 
exquisite  melody  and  tenderness,  and  show  that 
he  was  capable  of  the  highest  lyrical  efforts. 
Dr.  RUSSEL  'has  published  the  Remains  of 
WOLFE,  with  an  interesting  memoir  of  his  life. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, — 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

268 


We  thought,  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 

head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  : 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, — 
But  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


CHARLES  WOLFE. 


269 


OH,  MY  LOVE  HAS  AN  EYE  OF  THE 
SOFTEST  BLUE. 


OH,  my  love  has  an  eye  of  the  softest  blue, 

Yet  it  was  not  that  that  won  me  ; 
But  a  little  bright  drop  from  her  soul  was  there, 

'Tis  that  that  has  undone  me. 

I  might  have  pass'd  that  lovely  cheek, 
Nor,  perchance,  my  heart  have  left  me ; 

But  the  sensitive  blush  that  came  trembling  there, 
Of  my  heart  it  for  ever  bereft  me. 

I  might  have  forgotten  that  red,  red  lip — 
Yet  how  from  that  thought  to  sever  1 — 

But  there  was  a  smile  from  the  sunshine  within, 
And  that  smile  I'll  remember  for  ever. 

Think  not  'tis  nothing  but  lifeless  clay, 

The  elegant  form  that  haunts  me ; 
'Tis  the  gracefully  delicate  mind  that  moves 

In  every  step,  that  enchants  me. 

Let  me  not  hear  the  nightingale  sing, 
Though  I  once  in  its  notes  delighted  ; 

The  feeling  and  mind  that  comes  whispering  forth 
Has  left  me  no  music  beside  it. 

Who  could  blame  had  I  loved  that  face, 
Ere  my  eye  could  twice  explore  her  ; 

Yet  it  is  for  the  fairy  intelligence  there, 
And  her  warm — warm  heart  I  adore  her. 


OH,  SAY  NOT  THAT  MY  HEART  IS 
COLD. 

OH,  say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 
To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it ; 

That  nature's  form,  so  dear  of  old, 
No  more  has  power  to  charm  it ; 

Or,  that  the  ungenerous  world  can  chill 
•  One  glow  of  fond  emotion 

For  those  who  made  it  dearer  still, 
And  shared  my  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I  view 

In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness  ; 
Oft  look  on  those  who  loved  them  too 

With  fancy's  idle  gladness  ; 


Again  I  long'd  to  view  the  light 

In  nature's  features  glowing  ; 
Again  to  tread  the  mountain's  height, 

And  taste  the  soul's  o'erflowing. 

Stem  duty  rose,  and  frowning  flung 

His  leaden  chain  around  me  ; 
With  iron  look  and  sullen  tongue 

He  mutter'd  as  he  bound  me : 
«  The  mountain-breeze,  the  boundless  heaven 

Unfit  for  toil  the  creature  ; 
These  for  the  free  alone  are  given — 

But  what  have  slaves  with  nature  1" 


IF  I  HAD  THOUGHT    THOU  COULDST 
HAVE  DIED. 

IF  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee  ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be  ! 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  past, 

The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, — 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more ! 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  'twill  smile  again; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook, 

That  I  must  look  in  vain ! 
But  when  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid  ; 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary  !  thou  art  dead  ! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay,  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene, — 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been  ! 
While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own ; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave, — 

And  I  am  now  alone  ! 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 
And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart, 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  : 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, — 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore  ! 


PERCY   BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


THE  life  of  SHELLEY  is  familiar  to  most 
readers  of  modern  literature.  It  involves 
questions  too  grave  and  extensive  to  be  even 
glanced  at  in  these  pages,  and  I  shall  attempt 
to  give  but  little  more  than  its  chronology. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY,  the  eldest  son  of 
Sir  TIMOTHY  SHELLEY,  was  born  at  Field 
Place,  in  the  county  of  Suffolk,  on  the  fourth 
of  August,  1792.  When  thirteen  years  of  age, 
he  was  sent  to  Eton,  whence  at  an  earlier 
period  than  usual  he  was  transferred  to  Ox- 
ford. While  in  the  university  he  was  re- 
served and  melancholy,  but  studious.  His 
thirst  for  knowledge  was  insatiable,  and  he 
directed  his  inquiries  into  every  department 
of  science  and  opinion.  He  became  interested 
in  the  speculations  of  the  French  philosophers, 
and  a  convert  to  their  fallacies.  He  avowed 
his  new  principles,  and  boldly  challenged  his 
teachers  to  the  discussion  of  the  truth  of  the 
Christian  religion.  His  expulsion  from  the 
university  followed,  and  the  event  exaspe- 
rated and  embittered  his  mind  to  the  verge 
of  madness.  He  was  confirmed  in  his  belief, 
and  driven  yet  further  from  the  truth,  by  what 
he  deemed  oppression  and  despotism.  In  the 
excitement  of  this  period  he  wrote  Queen  Mab, 
the  most  wonderful  work  ever  produced  by 
one  so  young.  It  was  unpublished  several 
years,  and  it  finally  appeared  without  his  con- 
sent. It  is  an  earnest  expression  of  the  feel- 
ings born  at  Oxford;  of  unbelief,  of  protesta- 
tion, and  defiance. 

His  family  were  offended  by  his  course  at 
the  university,  and  more  so,  soon  after,  by 
his  marriage.  The  union  was  on  every  ac- 
count unfortunate.  Both  were  very  young ; 
and  SHELLEY  soon  found  that  he  could  have 
little  sympathy  of  taste  or  feeling  with  his 
wife.  After  the  birth  of  two  children  they 
separated,  by  mutual  consenf,  and  she  subse- 
quently committed  suicide,  though  not  until 
he  had  united  himself  to  a  daughter  of  GOD- 
WIN and  MARY  WOLSTONECRAFT.  This  was 
the  great  error  of  his  life;  he  should  not  have 
married  again  while  Mrs.  SHELLEY  lived  ;  but 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  circumstances 
and  of  his  principles  would  have  made  less 

270 


harsh  the  condemnation  which  the  act  occa- 
sioned. 

In  1814  SHELLEY  went  abroad,  visited  the 
more  magnificent  scenes  of  Switzerland,  and 
returned  to  England  by  the  Reuss  and  the 
Rhine.  In  the  following  summer  he  wrote 
Alastor  or  the  Spirit  of  Solitude.  Alastor  is 
a  young  enthusiast  who  has  vainly  sought,  in 
the  works  of  the  philosophers  and  in  travel, 
the  impersonation  of  a  beau  ideal  which  has 
no  existence;  and  he  dies  in  despair,  on  find- 
ing that  he  has  spent  his  years  in  a  dream. 
It  is  a  noble  poem,  beautiful,  tranquil,  and 
solemn.  The  melodious  versification  is  in 
keeping  with  the  exalted  melancholy  of  the 
thought.  It  was  the  ideal  of  SHELLEY'S  emo- 
tions, in  the  hues  inspired  by  his  brilliant 
imagination,  softened  by  the  recent  anticipa- 
tion of  death. 

The  year  1816  was  spent  chiefly  on  the 
shores  of  the  lake  of  Geneva.  It  was  during 
a  voyage  round  this  lake  with  Lord  BYRON, 
with  whom  he  had  recently  become  acquaint- 
ed, that  he  wrote  the  Hymn  to  Intellectual 
Beauty,  and  Mont  Blanc  was  inspired  soon 
after  by  a  view  of  that  mountain  while  on  his 
way  through  the  valley  of  Chnmouni. 

In  1817  SHELLEY  wrote  The  Revolt  of 
Islam,  and  several  shorter  pieces  and  frag- 
ments. The  beautiful  dedication  of  the  Revolt 
of  Islam  to  his  wife  I  have  copied  into  this 
volume.  Of  the  poem  itself  I  shall  attempt 
no  minute  description.  It  was  his  design, 
when  commencing  it,  to  entitle  it  Laon  and 
Cythna  or  the  Revolution  of  the  Golden  City, 
and  to  make  it  a  story  of  passion ;  but  as  he 
advanced  his  plan  was  changed.  At  the  end 
of  six  months,  devoted  to  the  task  with  un- 
remitted  ardour  and  enthusiasm,  he  finished 
the  work,  which,  with  all  its  beauty  and  mag- 
nificence, with  all  the  truth  that  glows  in  the 
darkness  of  its  error,  it  had  been  better  for  the 
world  if  he  had  left  unwritten. 

An  act  more  infamous  than  any  of  which 
SHELLEY  was  ever  even  accused,  was  that  of 
the  Court  of  Chancery,  under  the  presidency  of 
Lord  ELDON,  by  which  he  was  deprived  of  the 
guardianship  of  his  children,  on  the  ground 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


271 


that  his  antisocial  and  irreligious  principles 
unfitted  him  to  be  their  educator.  This  atro- 
cious violation  of  the  law  of  nature  drove  him 
from  England  for  ever.  While  crossing  the 
sea,  under  the  impression  that  expatriation 
was  necessary  to  preserve  his  child,  he  gave 
utterance  to  his  uncontrollable  emotions  in 
some  lines,  addressed  to  his  youngest  son : — 

The  billows  are  leaping  around  it, 

The  bark  is  weak  and  frail, 
The  sea  looks  black,  and  the  clouds  that  bound  it, 

Darkly  strew  the  gale. 
Come  with  me,  tliou  delightful  child, 
Come  with  rne,  though  the  wave  is  wild, 
And  the  winds  are  loose  ;  we  must  not  stay, 
Or  the  slaves  of  the  law  may  rend  thee  away. 

Rest,  rest,  shriek  not,  thou  gentle  child! 

The  rocking  of  the  boat  thou  fearest, 
And  the  cold  spray  and  the  clamour  wild? 

There  sit  between  us  two,  thou  dearest; 
Me  and  thy  mother — well  we  know 
The  storm  at  which  thou  tremblest  so, 
With  all  its  dark  and  hungry  graves, 
Less  cruel  than  the  savage  slaves 
Who  hunt  us  o'er  these  sheltering  waves. 

This  hour  will  sometime  in  thy  memory 

Be  a  drearn  of  days  forgotten  ; 
We  soon  sh  ill  dwell  by  the  azure  sea 

Of  serene  and  -golden  Italy, 

Or  Greece,  the  Mother  of  the  free. 

And  I  will  teach  thine  infant  tongue 

To  call  upon  those  heroes  old 

In  their  own  language,  and  will  mould 

Thy  growing  spirit  in  the  flame 

Of  Grecian  lore  ;  th;U  by  such  name 

A  patriot's  birthright  thou  rnayst  claim. 

When  afterwards  this  child  died  at  Rome, 
he  wrote  of  the  English  burying-ground  in  that 
city,  "This  spot  is  the  repository  of  a  sacred 
loss,  of  which  the  yearnings  of  a  parent's 
heart  are  now  prophetic ;  he  is  rendered  im- 
mortal by  love,  as  his  memory  is  by  death. 
My  beloved  child  is  buried  here.  I  envy 
death  the  body  far  less  than  the  oppressors 
the  minds  of  those  whom  they  have  torn  from 
me.  The  one  can  only  kill  the  body,  the 
otber  crushes  the  affections." 

Rosalind  and  Helen,  which  had  been  begun 
in  England,  was  finished  at  the  baths  of 
Lucca,  in  the  summer  of  1818.  From  Lucca 
SHELLEY  went  to  Venice,  near  which  city  he 
commenced  his  greatest  work,  Prometheus 
Unbound.  In  the  winter  he  removed  to 
Naples.  He  suffered  much  from  ill  health; 
and  in  the  spring  of  1819  went  to  Villa  Val- 
sovana,  in  the  vicinity  of  Leghorn,  where  he 
wrote  the  Masque  of  Anarchy,  from  which 
Liberty,  in  this  volume,  is  extracted,  and  the 
Tragedy  of  the  Cenci.  The  close  of  the  year 
1919  was  spent  in  Florence,  and  the  ensuing 
summer  at  the  baths  of  San  Giuliano,  near 


Pisa.  In  1820  he  wrote  The  Sensitive  Plant, 
Julian  and  Maddalo,  The  Witch  of  Atlas, 
and  many  smaller  pieces.  In  1821  he  was 
still  at  Pisa.  His  principal  writings  this  year 
were  Epipsychidion  and  Adonais.  In  the 
spring  of  1822  he  hired  a  villa  near  Lerici,  on 
the  bay  of  Spezia.  On  the  first  of  July  he 
left  home,  in  a  small  vessel  which  had  been 
built  for  him,  to  meet  his  friend  LEIGH  HUNT, 
who  had  just  arrived  at  Pisa.  Two  weeks 
after,  he  was  lost  in  a  storm  at  sea.  In  Ado- 
nais he  had  almost  anticipated  his  destiny. 
When  the  mind  figures  his  boat  veiled  from 
sight  by  the  clouds,  as  it  was  last  seen  upon 
the  ocean,  and  then  the  waves,  when  the 
storm  had  passed,  without  a  sign  of  where  it 
had  been,  it  may  well  regard  as  prophecy  the 
last  stanza  of  the  hymn  to  the  memory  of  his 
brother  bard  : — 

The  breath,  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song, 
Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven, 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng, 
Whose  snails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven  ; 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 

SHELLEY'S  predominant  faculty  was  his 
imagination.  Fantasy  prevails  to  such  an 
extent  in  his  long  poems,  that  they  are  too 
abstract  for  the  "  daily  food"  of  any  but  ideal 
minds.  No  modern  poet  has  created  such  an 
amount  of  mere  imagery.  There  is  a  want 
of  simplicity  and  human  interest  about  his 
productions  which  render  them  "  caviare  to 
the  general."  He  has  been  well  designated 
as  the  poet  for  poets.  Two  or  three  of  his 
short  pieces  are  models  of  lyric  beauty.  His 
classic  dramas  abound  in  rich  metaphors. 
The  Cenci  is  unquestionably  the  most  re- 
markable of  modern  plays.  Greek  literature 
modified  his  taste,  and  a  life  of  singular 
vicissitude  disturbed  the  healthful  current 
of  a  soul  cast  in  a  gentle  but  heroic  mould. 
His  aspirations  were  exalted,  and  his  genius 
of  the  first  order.  Notwithstanding  all  the 
injustice  done  him  by  men  prejudiced  by  his 
irreligious  opinions,  it  is  my  belief,  from  a 
careful  study  of  his  life,  that  the  world  has 
scarcely  furnished  a  more  noble  nature.  He 
might  have  been  a  Christian  had  he  suffered 
less  from  man's  inhumanity.  The  weakness 
and  wickedness  which  made  him  an  exile 
from  his  home  and  country,  hardened  his  heart 
and  petrified  his  feelings  against  an  influence 


272 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


which  is  rarely  powerful  save  when  it  comes 
in  the  guise  of  love. 

The  last  edition  of  SHELLEY'S  writings, 
published  by  Mr.  Moxon,  was  edited  by  his 
widow,  the  author  of  Frankenstein,  a  woman 
worthy  to  be  the  wife  of  such  a  man.  Its 
notes,  with  the  text,  constitute  the  best  bio- 
graphy of  the  poet. 

In  our  own  country  more  justice  has  been 
done  to  SHELLEY'S  genius,  motives,  and  ac- 
tions than  they  have  received  at  home.  I  refer 
with  pleasure  for  a  more  elaborate  discussion 

THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT. 

PART    I. 

A  SENSITIVE  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 

And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 

And  it  open'd  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 

And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere  ; 

And  each  flower  and  herb  on  earth's  dark  breast 

Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest." 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 

In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness, 

Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's  sweet  want, 

As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet, 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 

And  their  breath  was  mix'd  with  fresh  odour,  sent 

From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 

And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 

Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess, 

Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness ; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 

Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 

That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 

Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green  ; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and  blue, 

Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 

Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 

It  was  felt  like  an  odour  within  the  sense  ; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 

Which  unveil'd  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 

Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 

The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare  : 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 

As  a  Maenad,  its  moonlight-colour'd  cup, 

Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 

Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky ; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 

The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows  ; 

And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 

Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 

Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 

With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 

Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmer'd  by, 


of  his  claims  than  I  can  here  present,  to  Ram- 
bles and  Reveries,  by  my  friend  H.  T.  TUCKER- 
MAN;  a  volume  which  contains  a  series  of 
essays  on  the  modern  English  poets,  by  one 
of  the  most  elegant  and  discriminating  critics 
of  the  day. 

SHELLEY  left  but  one  child,  a  son,  PERCY 
FLORENCE  SHELLEY,  who,  by  the  death  of  the 
poet's  father  in  the  summer  of  1844,  has  be- 
come a  baronet  and  succeeded  to  the  family 
estates.  Sir  PERCY  SHELLEY  is  now  about 
twenty-five  years  of  age. 


And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 

With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 

Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 

Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 

Some  lost  among  the  bowers  of  blossoming  trees, 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 

As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels  ; 

And  flowrets  which  drooping  as  day  droop'd  too, 

Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue, 

To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 

The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 

Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 

Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it,) 

When  heaven's  blithe  winds' had  unfolded  them, 

As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem, 

Shone  smiling  to  heaven,  and  every  one 

Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun  ; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  the  light  and  the  odour  its  neighbour  shed, 

Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear, 

Wrapp'd  and  fill'd  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant  which  could  give  small  fruit 

Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 

Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever, 

Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver ; 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower ; 

Radiance  and  odour  are  not  its  dower ; 

It  loves,  even  like  love,  its  deep  heart  is  full, 

It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining  wings 

Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings  ; 

The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star 

Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar ; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 

Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 

Laden  with  light  and  odour,  which  pass 

Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass  ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 

Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high, 

Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 

Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears; 

The  quivering  vapours  of  dim  noontide, 

Which,  like  a  sea,  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide, 

In  which  every  sound,  and  odour,  and  beam, 

Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream  ; 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


273 


Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 
And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven  above, 
And  the  earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love, 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep, 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep, 
And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the  insects  were 

drown'd 

In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound  ;       [press 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  im- 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  consciousness  ; 
(Only  over  head  the  sweet  nightingale 
Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail, 
And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 
Weremix'd  with  thedreams  of  theSensitivePlant.) 
The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Up-gather'd  into  the  bosom  of  rest; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favourite, 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 

PART    II. 

THERE  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden  ;  a  ruling  grace 
Which  to  the  flowers,  did  they  waken  or  dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 
A  lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind, 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean, 
Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even  : 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven, 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  night  walks  forth, 
Laugh'd  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  earth  ! 
She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race, 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing  face 
Told,  whilst  the  morn  kiss'd  the  sleep  from  her  eyes, 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  Paradise  : 
As  if  some  bright  Spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 
Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake, 
As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 
Though  the  veil  of  daylight  conceal'd  him  from  her. 
Her  step  seem'd  to  pity  the  grass  it  prest ; 
You  might  hear,  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast, 
That  the  coming  and  the  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion  behind. 
And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod, 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased  its  light  vestige,  with  shadowy  sweep, 
lake  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green  deep. 
I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet ; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 
She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam ; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder  showers. 
She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands, 
And  sustain'd  them  with  rods  and  ozier  bands ; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants,  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 
And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore  in  her  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof: 
35 


In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers  full, 

The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 

For  the  poor  banish'd  insects,  whose  intent, 

Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beamlike  ephemeris,        [kiss 

WThose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  soft  moths  that 

The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm  not,  did  she 

Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 

Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come, 

She  left  clinging  round  the  smooth  and  dark 

Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 

Thus  moved  through  the  garden  ministering 

All  the  sweet  season  of  summer  tide, 

And  ere  the  first  leaf  look'd  brown — she  died  ! 

PART    III. 

THREE  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair, 
Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awaken'd,  were, 
Or  the  waves  of  Baise,  ere  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 
And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant, 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and  slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners  deep  and  low; 
The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath, 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 
And  the  smell,  cold,  oppressive,  and  dank, 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  coffin  plank  ; 
The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did  pass ; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines  and  gave  groan  for  groan. 
The  garden,  onct  fair,  became  cold  and  foul, 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul ; 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 
Swift  summer  into  the  autumn  flow'd, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode, 
Though  the  noonday  sun  look'd  clear  and  bright, 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 
The  rose  leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow, 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and  wan, 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man  ; 
And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  day  by  day, 
Were  mass'd  into  the  common  clay. 
And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  gray,  and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the  dry  wind  past ; 
Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 
And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged  seeds 
Out  of  their  birth-place  of  ugly  weeds, 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's  stem, 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 
The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were  set;. 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there, 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 
Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks  ; 
And  the  leafless  net-work  of  parasite  bowers 


274 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


Mass'd  into  ruin,  and  all  sweet  flowers. 
Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow, 
All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 
Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splash'd  with  many  a 

speck, 

Like  the  water-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's  back. 
And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels  rank, 
And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hemlock  dank, 
Stretch'd  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank, 
And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind  stank. 
And  plants,  at  whose  names  the  verse  feels  loath, 
Fill'd  the  place  with  a  monstrous  undergrowth, 
Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and  blue, 
Livid,  and  starr'd  with  a  lurid  dew. 
And  agarics  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and  mould, 
Started  like  mi.st  from  the  wet  ground  cold ; 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  animated  ! 
Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum, 
Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb, 
And  at  its  outlet,  flags  huge  as  stakes 
Dammed    it    up  with  roots  knotted  like    water- 
snakes. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still, 
The  vapours  arose  which  have  strength  to  kill : 
At  morn  they  were  seen,  at  noon  they  were  felt, 
At  night  they  were  darkness  no  star  could  melt. 
And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  spray 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noonday 
Unseen ;  every  branch  on  which  they  alit 
By  a  venomous  blight  was  burn'd  and  bit. 
The  Sensitive  Plant,  like  one  forbid, 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves,  which  together  grew, 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 
For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  soon 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn  ; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every  pore, 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 
For  winter  came  :   the  wind  was  his  whip  : 
One  choppy  linger  was  on  his  lip: 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills, 
And  they  clank'd  at  his  girdle  like  manacles; 
His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a  sound 
The  earth,  arid  the  air,  and  the  water  bound ; 
He  came,  fiercely  driven  in  his  chariot-throne 
By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  arctic  zone. 
Then  the  weeds  which  were  forms  of  living  death 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost  ! 
And  under  the  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want : 
The  birds  dropp'd  stiff  from  the  frozen  air, 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked  and  bare. 
First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain, 
And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs  again  ; 
Then  there  steam'd  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew  ; 
And  a  northern  whirlwind,  wandering  about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child  out, 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden,  and  heavy  and  stiff, 
And  snapp'd  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff. 
When  winter  had  gone  and  spring  came  back, 
The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck ; 


But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and  docks,  and 

darnels, 
Rose  like  the  dead  from  their  ruined  charnels. 

CONCLUSION. 

WHETHER  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 
Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light, 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 
I  dare  not  guess  ;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream, 
It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant,  if  one  considers  it, 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be,  ' 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 
That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odours  there, 
In  truth  have  never  pass'd  away  : 
'Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed  ;  not  they. 
For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight, 
There  is  no  death  nor  change :  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 


LOVE. 

THOU  art  the  wine  whose  drunkenness  is  all 
We  can  desire,  O  Love !  and  happy  souls, 
Ere  from  thy  vine  the  leaves  of  autumn  fall, 
Catch  thee  and  feed  from  thine  o'erflowing  bowls, 
Thousands  who  thirst  for  thy  ambrosial  dew. 
Thou  art  the  radiance  which  when  ocean  rolls 
Investeth  it ;  and  when  the  heavens  are  blue 
Thou  fillest  them :  and  when  the  earth  is  fair 
The  shadows  of  thy  moving  wings  imbue 
Its  deserts,  and  its  mountains ;  till  they  wear 
Beauty,  like  some  bright  robe.  Thou  ever  soarest 
Among  the  towers  of  men  ;  and  as  soft  air 
In  spring,  which  moves  the  unawakened  forest, 
Clothing  with  leaves  its  branches  bare  and  bleak, 
Thou  floutest  among  men ;  and  age  implorest 
That  which  from  thee  they  should  implore  : — the 
Alone  kneel  to  thee,  offering  up  the  hearts      [weak 
The  strong  have  broken — yet  where  shall  any  seek 
A  garment,  whom  thou  clothest  not  1 


THE  UNATTAINED. 

To  thirst  and  find  no  fill — to  wail  and  wander 
With  short  unsteady  steps — to  pause  and  ponder — 
To  feel  the  blood  run  through  the  veins  and  tingle 
Where  busy  thought  and  blind  sensation  mingle ; 
To  nurse  the  image  of  unfelt  caresses 
Till  dim  imagination  just  possesses 
The  half-created  shadow. 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


275 


DEDICATION   TO    "THE   REVOLT    OF 
ISLAM," 

So  now  my  summer  task  is  ended,  Mary, 
And  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  heart's  home ; 
As  to  his  queen  some  victor  knight  of  faery, 
Earning  bright  spoils  for  her  enchanted  dome  ; 
Nor  thou  disdain,  that  ere  my  fame  become 
A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night, 
If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom, 
Its  doubtful  promise  thus  I  would  unite      [light. 
With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  child  of  love  and 

The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many  an  hour 
Is  ended. — And  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet ! 
No  longer  where  the  woods  to  frame  a  bower 
With  interlaced  branches  mix  and  meet, 
Or  where,  with  sound  like  many  voices  sweet, 
Water-fails  leap  among  wild  islands  green, 
Which  framed  for  my  lone  boat  a  lone  retreat 
Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I  be  seen : 
But  beside  thee,  where  still  my  heart  has  ever  been. 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  friend, 

when  first 
The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from  youth 

did  pass. 

I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep  :  a  fresh  Maydawn  it  was, 
When  I  walk'd  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass, 
And  wept  I  knew  not  why ;  until  there  rose 
From  the  near  school-room,  voices,  that  alas  ! 
Were  but  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes, 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

And  then  I  clasp'd  my  hands  and  look'd  around — 
But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 
Which  pour'd  the  warm  drops  on  the  sunny 

1  ground — 

So  without  shame,  I  spake : — « I  will  be  wise, 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power ;  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."     I  then  controll'd 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  arid  I  was  meek  and 
bold. 

And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore ; 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  link'd  armour  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind ; 
Thus  power  and  hope  were  strengthen'd  more 

and  more 

Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which  I  pined. 

Alas,  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and  snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in  one ! — 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain  ;  then  black  despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Over  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone : — 
Yet  never  found  I  one  not  false  to  me, 
Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights  of  icy  stone 
Which  crush'd  and  wither'd  mine,  that  could  not 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog  until  revived  by  thee.  [be 


Thou  friend,  whose  presence  on  my  wintery  heart 
Fell  like  bright  spring  upon  some  herbless  plain ; 
How  beautiful  and  calm,  and  free  thou  wert 
In  thy  young  wisdom,  when  the  mortal  chain 
Of  custom  thou  didst  burst  and  rend  in  twain, 
And  walk'd  as  free  as  light  the  clouds  among, 
Which  many  an  envious  slave  then  breathed  in 

vain 

From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit  sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had  begirt  it 

long. 

No  more  alone  through  the  world's  wilderness, 
Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high  intent, 
I  journey'd  now  :  no  more  companionless, 
Where  solitude  is  like  despair,  I  went. — 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stern  content, 
When  poverty  can  blight  the  just  and  good, 
When  infamy  dares  mock  the  innocent, 
And  cherish'd  friends  turn  with  the  multitude 
To  trample:  this  was  ours,  and  we  unshaken  stood ! 

Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour, 

And  with  inconstant  fortune  friends  return ; 

Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge  and  the 

power, 

Which  says : — let  scorn  be  not  repaid  with  scorn. 
And  from  thy  side  two  gentle  babes  are  born 
To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus  are  we 
Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming  morn ; 
And  these  delights,  and  thou,  have  been  to  me 
The  parents  of  the  song  I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Is  it  that  now  my  inexperienced  fingers 
But  strike  the  prelude  to  a  loftier  strain  ? 
Or  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit  lingers 
Soon  pause  in  silence  ne'er  to  sound  again, 
Though  it  might  shake  the  anarch  Custom's  reign, 
And  charm  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's  own  sway, 
Holier  than  was  Amphion's  ?  it  would  fain 
Reply  in  hope — but  I  am  worn  away,          [prey- 
And  death  and  love  are  yet  contending  for  their 

And  what  art  thou  1  I  know,  but  dare  not  speak  : 
Time  may  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet  in  the  paleness  of  thy  thoughtful  cheek, 
And  in  the  light  thine  ample  forehead  wears, 
And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  thy  tears, 
And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whisper'd  to  subdue  my  fondest  fears  : 
And  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy  soul  I  see 
A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy  birth, 
Of  glorious  parents,  thou  aspiring  child. 
I  wonder  not — for  one  then  left  this  earth 
Whose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet  mild, 
Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance  undefiled 
Of  its  departing  glory  ;  still  her  fame  [wild 

Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempests  dark  and 
Which  shake  these  latter  days ;  and  thou  canst 

claim 
The  shelter  from  thy  sire,  of  an  immortal  name. 

One  voice  came  forth  from  many  a  mighty  spirit, 
Which  was  the  echo  of  three  thousand  years ; 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute  to  hear  it, 


276 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


As  some  lone  man,  who  in  a  desert  hears 
The  music  of  his  home  : — unwonted  fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race, 
And  faith  and  custom  and  low-thoughted  cares, 
Like  thunder-stricken  dragons,  for  a  space   [place, 

Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food  and  dwelling- 
Truth's  deathless  voice  pauses  among  mankind ! 
If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my  cry — 
If  men  must  rise  and  stamp  with  fury  blind 
On  his  pure  name  who  loves  them, — thou  and  I, 
Sweet  friend  !  can  look  from  our  tranquillity 
Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous  night, — 
Two  tranquil  stars,  while  clouds  are  passing  by, 
Which  wrap  them  from  the  foundering  seaman's 
sight,  [light. 

That  burn  from  year  to  year  with  unextinguished 


FROM 


ALASTOR,  OR  THE  SPIRIT  OF 
SOLITUDE." 


THERE  was  a  poet,  whose  untimely  tomb 
No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  rear'd 
But  the  charm'd  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilderness; 
A  lovely  youth, — no  mourning  maiden  deck'd 
With  weeping  flowers,  or  white  cypress  wreath, 
The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep  : — 
Gentle  and  brave,  and  generous, — no  lorn  bard 
Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious  sigh: 
He  lived,  he  died,  he  sang,  in  solitude. 
Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passionate  notes, 
And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  past,  have  pined 
And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 
The  fire  of  those  orbs  has  ceased  to  burn, 
And  silence,  too  enamour'd  of  that  voice, 
Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By  solemn  vision,  and  bright  silver  dream, 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses. 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips,  and  all  of  great, 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
In  truth,  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 
And  knew.     When  early  youth  had  past,  he  left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home 
To  seek  strange  truths  in  undiscover'd  lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilderness 
Has  lured  his  fearful  steps ;  and  he  has  bought 
With  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,  from  savage  men, 
His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret  steps 
He  like  a  shadow  has  pursued,  where'er 
The  red  volcano  over-canopies 
Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
With  burning  smoke,  or  where  bitumen  lakes 
On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret  caves, 
Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the  springs 
Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls, 


Frequent  with  crystal  column,  and  clear  shrines 
Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chrysolite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 
Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  of  heaven 
And  the  green  earth  lost  in  his  heart  its  claims 
To  love  and  wonder ;  he  would  linger  long 
In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his  home, 
Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  partake 
From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food, 
Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks  ; 
And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  whene'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  the  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps  to  gaze  upon  a  form 
More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step, 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old  : 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,  and  the  waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and  whatsoe'er  of  strange 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk, 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphynx, 
Dark  Ethiopia  in  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.     Among  the  ruined  temples  there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  demons  watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute  walls  around. 
He  linger'd,  poring  in  memorials 
Of  the  world's  youth;  through  the  long  burning  day 
Gazed  in  those  speechless  shapes,nor,when  themoon 
FilPd  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating  shades 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And  gazed,  till  meaning  on  his  vacant  mind 
Flash'd  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 


ALASTOR  AND_THE  SWAN. 

AT  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian  shore 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of  putrid  marshes.     A  strong  impulse  urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.     A  swan  was  there, 
Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approach'd,  and  with  strong  wings 
Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright  course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 
His  eyes  pursued  its  flight. — "  Thou  hast  a  home, 
Beautiful  bird !  thou  voyagest  to  thine  home, 
Where  thy  sweet  mate  will  twine  her  downy  neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I  that  I  should  linger  here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
In  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 
That  echoes  not  my  thoughts]"    A  gloomy  smile 
Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering  lips. 
For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 
Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  exposed, 
Faithless  perhaps  as  sleep,  a  shadowy  lure, 
With  doubtful  smilemockingitsownstrange  charms. 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


277 


FROM   "  THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM." 

IT  was  a  temple,  such  as  mortal  hand 
Has  never  built,  nor  ecstasy  nor  dream 
Rear'd  in  the  cities  of  enchanted  land  : 
'Twas  Hkest  heaven,  ere  yet  day's  purple  stream 
Ebbs  o'er  the  western  forest,  while  the  gleam 
Of  the  unrisen  moon  among  the  clouds 
Is  gathering, — when  with  many  a  golden  beam 
The  thronging  constellations  rush  in  crowds, 
Paving  with  fire  the  sky  and  the  Marmoreal  floods. 

Like  what  may  be  conceived  of  this  vast  dome, 
When  from  the  depths  which  thought  can  seldom 

pierce, 

Genius  beholds  it  rise,  his  native  home, 
Girt  by  the  deserts  of  the  universe  ; 
Yet,  nor  in  paintings  light,  or  mightier  verse, 
Or  sculpture's  marble  language,  can  invest 
That  shape  to  mortal  sense, — such  glooms  immerse 
That  incommunicable  sight,  and  rest 
Upon  the  labouring  brain,  and  overburden'd  breast. 

Winding  among  the  lawny  islands  fair, 
Whose  blossomy  forests  starr'd  the  shadowy  deep, 
The  wingless  boat  paused  where  an  ivory  stair 
Its  fretwork  in  the  crystal  sea  did  sleep, 
Encircling  that  vast  fane's  aerial  heap : 
We  disembark'd,  and  through  a  portal  wide 
We  past, — whose  roof,  of  moonstone,  carved,  did 

keep 

A  glimmering  o'er  the  forms  on  every  side, 
Sculptures  like  life  and  thought ;  immovable,  deep- 
eyed. 

We  came  to  a  vast  hall,  whose  glorious  roof 
Was  diamond,  which  had  drunk  the  lightning's 

sheen 

In  darkness,  and  now  pour'd  it  through  the  woof 
Of  spell-enwoven  clouds  hung  there  to  screen 
Its  blinding  splendour,  through  such  veil  was  seen 
That  work  of  subtlest  power  divine  and  rare  ; 
Orb  above  orb,  with  starry  shapes  between, 
And  horned  moons,  and  meteors  strange  and  fair, 
On  night-black  columns  poised — one  hollow  he- 
misphere ! 

Ten  thousand  columns  in  that  quivering  light 
Distinct, — between  whose  shafts  wound  far  away 
The  long  and  labyrinthine  aisles  more  bright 
With  their  own  radiance  than  the  heaven  of  day  ; 
And  on  the  jasper  walls  around  there  lay 
Paintings,  the  poesy  of  mightiest  thought, 
Which  did  the  spirit's  history  display ; 
A  tale  of  passionate  change,  divinely  taught, 
Which  in  their  winged  dance  unconscious  genii 
wrought. 

Beneath  there  sate  on  many  a  sapphire  throne 

The  great,  who  had  departed  from  mankind ; 

A  mighty  senate ; — some  whose  white  hair  shone 

Like  mountain  snow,  mild,  beautiful,  and  blind. 

Some,  female  forms,  whose  gestures  beam'd  with 
mind ; 

And  ardent  youths,  and  children  bright  and  fair ; 

And  some  had  lyres,  whose  strings  were  inter- 
twined 


With  pale  and  clinging  flames,  which  ever  there 
Walk'd,  faint  yet  thrilling  sounds,  that  pierced  the 
crystal  air. 

One  seat  was  vacant  in  the  midst,  a  throne 
Rear'd  on  a  pyramid,  like  sculptured  flame 
Distinct,  with  circling  steps,  which  rested  on 
Their  own  deep  fire — soon  as  the  woman  came 
Into  that  hall,  she  shriek'd  the  spirit's  name 
And  fell ;  and  vanish'd  slowly  from  the  sight. 
Darkness  arose  from  her  dissolving  frame, 
Which  gathering  fill'd  that  dome  of  woven  light, 
Blotting  its  sphered  stars  with  supernatural  night. 

Then  first,  two  glittering  lights  were  seen  to  glide 
In  circles  on  the  amethystine  floor, 
Small  serpent  eyes  wailing  from  side  to  side, 
Like  meteors  on  a  river's  grassy  shore, 
They  round  each  other  roll'd,  dilating  more 
And  more,  then  rose  commingling  into  one, 
One  clear  and  mighty  planet,  hanging  o'er 
A  cloud  of  deepest  shadow,  which  was  thrown 
Athwart   the  glowing  steps,  and  the    crystalline 
throne. 

The  cloud  which  rested  on  that  cone  of  flame 
Was  cloven  ;  beneath  the  planet  sate  a  form, 
Fairer  than  tongue  can  speak,  or  thought  may 

frame, 

The  radiance  of  whose  limbs  rose-like  and  warm 
Flow'd  forth,  and  did  with  softest  light  inform 
The  shadowy  dome,  the  sculptures  and  the  state 
Of  those  assembled  shapes — with  clinging  charm, 
Sinking  upon  their  hearts  and  mine.     He  sate 
Majestic,  yet  most  mild — calm,  yet  compassionate. 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 

THE  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  power 
Floats  though  unseen  among  us ;  visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 

As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower; 

Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny  mountain 

shower, 

It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance ; 

Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, 
Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 

Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  where  art  thou  gone  1 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state, 

This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  1 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain  river; 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown ; 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom,  why  man  has  such  a  scope 

For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 
2A 


278 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given  : 
Therefore  the  names  of  demon,  ghost,  and  heaven, 

Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavour : 

Frail  spells,  whose  utter'd  charm  might  not  avail 

to  sever, 

From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 

Thy  light  alone,  like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 

Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

Love,  hope,  and  self-esteem,  like  clouds,  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent. 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 

Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 

Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  within  his 

heart. 

Thou  messenger  of  sympathies 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lover's  eyes ; 

Thou,  that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment, 
Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame  J 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came : 
Depart  not,  less  the  grave  should  be, 

Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and  ruin, 

And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead,  [fed  : 
I  call'd  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is 

I  was  not  heard  :    I  saw  them  not : 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  -wooing 

All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming, 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  roe  : 
I  shriek'd,  and  clasp'd  my  hands  in  ecstasy  ! 

I  vow'd  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine  :  have  I  not  kept  the  vow  ? 

With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave :  they  have  in  vision'd 
bowers 

Of  studious  zeal  or  loves  delight 

Outwatch'd  with  me  the  envious  night : 
They  know  that  never  joy  illnmed  my  brow, 

Unlink'd  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 

This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 

That  thou,  Oh  awful  loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 

When  noon  is  past :  there  is  a  harmony 

In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 

Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 

Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 

Its  calm,  to  one  who  worships  thee, 

And  every  form  containing  thee, 

Whom,  spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


SONG. 

RAHELY,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night '.' 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  1 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scolTat  pain. 
Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismay'd  ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure, 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure. 
Pity,  then,  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  delight ! 
The  fresh  earth  in  new  leaves  drest, 

And  the  starry  night ; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost : 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Every  thing  almost 
Which  is  nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good  ; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference  1  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

I  love  Love — though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But,  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee — 
Thou  art  love  and  life  !  Oh  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 


DEATH  AND  SLEEP. 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 
Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  ! 

One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 
With  lips  of  lurid  blue; 

The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 

When  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 
It  blushes  o'er  the  world  : 

Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful ! 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


279 


A  PICTURE. 

How  beautiful  this  night !  the  balmiest  sigh 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear, 
Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude         [vault, 
That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright,  [rolls, 

Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur 
Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  has  spread 
Above  the  steeping  world.     Yon  gentle  hills, 
Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow  ; 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend, 
So  stainless,  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 
Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam;  yon  castled  steep, 
Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 
So  idly,  that  'rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace  ; — all  form  a  scene 
Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness  ; 
Where  silence  undisturb'd  might  watch  alone, 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still !     The  orb  of  day, 
In  southern  climes,  o'er  ocean's  waveless  field 
Sinks  sweetly  smiling :  not  the  faintest  breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruffled  deep  ;,  the  clouds  of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day  ; 
And  vesper's  image  on  the  western  main 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes : 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepening  mass, 
Roll  o'er  the  blackened  waters;  the  deep  roar 
Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully  ; 
Tempest  unfolds  its  pinions  o'er  the  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge;  the  pitiless  fiend, 
With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  tracks  his  prey  ; 
The  torn  deep  yawns — the  vessel  finds  a  grave 
Beneath  its  jugged  gulf. 

Ah  !  whence  yon  glare 

That  fires  the  arch  of  heaven  1 — that  dark  red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon  ]     The  stars  are  quench'd 
In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling  snow 
Gleams  faintly  through  the  gloom  thatgathersround! 
Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  swift  and  deafening  peals 
In  countless  echoes  through  the  mountains  ring, 
Startling  pale  midnight  on  her  starry  throne  ! 
Now  swells  the  intermingling  din  ;   the  jar, 
Frequent  and  frightful,  of  the  bursting  bomb  ; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout, 
The  ceaseless  clangour,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage  ! — Loud  and  more  loud 
The  discord  grows  ;  till  pale  death  shuts  the  scene, 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquer'd  draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud.     Of  all  the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there, 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health — of  all  the  hearts 
That  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sunset  there — 
How  few  survive,  how  few  are  beating  now  ! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous  pause ; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widow'd  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint  moan 
With  which  some  soul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  gray  morn 

Dawns  on  themournful  scene;  the  sulphurous  smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away, 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 


Along  the  spangling  snow.     There  tracks  of  blood, 

Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scatter'd  arms, 

And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  lineaments 

Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dreadful  path 

Of  the  outsallying  victors  :  far  behind 

Black  ashes  note  where  their  proud  city  stood. 

Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen — 

Each  tree  which  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day 

Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 


SPRING. 

THE  blasts  of  autumn  drive  the  winged  seeds 
Over  the  earth, — next  come  the  snows,  and  rain, 
And  frost,  and  storms,  which  dreary  winter  leads 
Out  of  his  Scythian  cave,  a  savage  train  ; 
Behold  !    Spring  sweeps  over  the  world  again, 
Shedding  soft  dews  from  her  ethereal  wings ; 
Flowers  on  the  mountains,  fruits  over  the  plain, 
And  music  on  the  waves  and  woods  she  flings, 
And  love  on  all  that  lives,and  calm  on  lifeless  things. 

O  spring  !  of  hope,  and  love,  and  youth,  and  glad- 
ness, 

Wind-wing'd  emblem  !  brightest,  best,  and  fairest! 
Whence  comest  thou,  when  with  dark  winter's 

sadness 

The  tears  that  fade  in  sunny  smiles  thou  sharest  ] 
Sister  of  joy  !   thou  art  the  child  who  wearest 
Thy  mother's  dying  smile,  tender  and  sweet; 
Thy  mother  Autumn,  for  whose  grave  thou  bearest 
Fresh  flowers,  and  beams  like  flowers,  with  gentle 
feet  [sheet. 

Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her  winding- 
Virtue,  and  hope,  and  love,  like  light  and  heaven, 
Surround  the  world.     We  are  their  chosen  slaves. 
Has  not  the  whirlwind  of  our  spirit  driven 
Truth's  deathless   germs  to  thought's  remotest 

caves ] 

Lo,  winter  comes  ! — the  grief  of  many  graves, 
The  frost  of  death,  the  tempest  of  the  sword, 
The  flood  of  tyranny,  whose  sanguine  waves 
Stagnate  like  ice  at  faith,  the  enchanter's  word, 
And  bind  all  human  hearts  in  its  repose  abhorr'd. 

The  seeds  are  sleeping  in  the  soil :  meanwhile 
The  tyrant  peoples  dungeons  with  his  prey  ; 
Pale  victims  on  the  guarded  scaffold  smile 
Because  they  cannot  speak ;  and,  day  by  day, 
The  moon  of  wasting  science  wanes  away 
Among  her  stars,  and  in  that  darkness  vast 
The  sons  of  earth  to  their  foul  idols  pray, 
Arid  gray  priests  triumph,  and  like  blight  or  blast 
A  shade  of  selfish  care  o'er  human  looks  is  cast. 

This  is  the  winter  of  the  world  ; — and  here 
We  die,  even  as  the  winds  of  autumn  fade, 
Expiring  in  the  frore  and  foggy  air. —         [made 
Behold  !  Spring  comes,  though  we  must  pass,  who 
The  promise  of  its  birth, — even  as  the  shade 
Which  from  our  death,  as  from  a  mountain,  flings 
The  future,  a  broad  sunrise;  thus  array'd 
As  with  the  plumes  of  overshadowing  wings, 
From  its  dark  gulf  of  chains,  earth  like  an  eagle 
springs. 


280 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


FROM  ADONAIS:  AN  ELEGY  ON  THE 
DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 

HE  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  death  is  dead,  not  he ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais.     Thou  young  dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandon'd  earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair ! 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely  :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling 

there 

All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear; 
Torturing  the  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear  ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men,  into  the  Heaven's 

light. 

The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguish'd  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb, 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfill'd  renown 

Rose   from    their  thrones,  built    beyond    mortal 

thought, 

Far  in  the  unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell,  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 
Sublimely  mild,  a  spirit  without  spot, 
Arose ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved  : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  earth  are  dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry  ; 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent,  alone  amid  a  heaven  of  song. 
Assume  thy   winged  throne,  thou   vesper  of  our 
throng." 


THE  SERPENT  IS   SHUT  OUT   FROM 
PARADISE. 

THE  serpent  is  shut  out  from  paradise. 

The  wounded  deer  must  seek  the  herb  no  more 

In  which  its  heart-cure  lies : 
The  widow'd  dove  must  cease  to  haunt  a  bower, 
Like  that  from  which  its  mate  with  feigned  sighs 

Fled  in  the  April  hour. 
I  too  must  seldom  seek  again 
Near  happy  friends  a  mitigated  pain. 

Of  hatred  I  am  proud, — with  scorn  content ; 
Indifference,  that  once  hurt  me,  now  is  grown 

Itself  indifferent. 

But,  not  to  speak  of  love,  pity  alone 
Can  break  a  spirit  already  more  than  bent. 

The  miserable  one 

Turns  the  mind's  poison  into  food, — 
Its  medicine  is  tears, — its  evil  good. 

Therefore  if  now  I  see  you  seldomer, 
Dear,  gentle  friend  !  know  that  I  only  fly 

Your  looks,  because  they  stir 
Griefs  that  should  sleep,  and  hopes  that  cannot 

die: 
The  very  comfort  that  they  minister 

I  scarce  can  bear,  yet  I, 
So  deeply  is  the  arrow  gone, 
Should  quickly  perish  if  it  were  withdrawn. 

When  I  return  to  my  cold  home,  you  ask 
Why  I  am  not  as  I  have  ever  been. 

You  spoil  me  for  the  task 
Of  acting  a  forced  part  on  life's  dull  scene, — 
Of  wearing  on  my  brow  the  idle  mask 

Of  author,  great  or  mean. 
In  the  world's  carnival  I  sought 
Peace  thus,  and  but  in  you  I  found  it  not. 

Full  half  an  hour,  to-day,  I  tried  my  lot 
With  various  flowers,  and  every  one  still  said, 

«  She  loves  me loves  me  not." 

And  if  this  meant  a  vision  long  since  fled — 
If  it  meant  fortune,  fame,  or  peace  of  thought — 

If  it  meant — but  I  dread 
To  speak  what  you  may  know  too  well  : 
Still  there  was  truth  in  the  sad  oracle. 

The  crane  o'er  seas  and  forests  seeks  her  home ; 
No  bird  so  wild  but  has  its  quiet  nest, 

Whence  it  no  more  would  roam  ; 
The  sleepless  billows  on  the  ocean's  breast 
Burst  like  a  bursting  heart,  and  die  in  peace, 

And  thus  at  length  find  rest. 
Doubtless  there  is  a  place  of  peace 
Where  my  weak  heart  and  all  its  throbs  shall  cease. 

I  nsk'd  her,  yesterday,  if  she  believed 
That  I  had  resolution.     One  who  had 

Would  ne'er  have  thus  relieved 
His  heart  with  words, — but  what  his  judgment  bade 
Would  do,  and  leave  the  scorner  unreprieved. 

These  verses  are  too  sad 
To  send  to  you,  but  that  I  know, 
Happy  yourself,  you  feel  another's  wo. 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


281 


LIBERTY. 

WHAT  art  thou,  Freedom  ?    Oh  !  could  slaves 
Answer  from  their  living  graves 
This  demand,  tyrants  would  flee 
Like  a  dream's  dim  imagery. 

Thou  art  not,  as  impostors  say, 
A  shadow  soon  to  pass  away, 
A  superstition,  and  a  name 
Echoing  from  the  cave  of  Fame. 
For  the  labourer  thou  art  bread 
And  a  comely  table  spread, 
From  his  daily  labour  come, 
In  a  neat  and  happy  home. 
Thou  art  clothes,  and  fire,  and  food 
For  the  trampled  multitude  : 
No — in  countries  that  are  free 
Such  starvation  cannot  be, 
As  in  England  now  we  see. 
To  the  rich  thou  art  a  check  ; 
When  his  foot  is  on  the  neck 
Of  his  victim,  thou  dost  make 
That  he  treads  upon  a  snake. 

Thou  art  Justice — ne'er  for  gold 
May  thy  righteous  laws  be  sold, 
As  laws  are  in  England  : — thou 

Shieldest  alike  the  high  and  low 

Thou  art  Peace — never  by  thee 
Would  blood  and  treasure  wasted  be, 
As  tyrants  wasted  them,  when  all 
Leagued  to  quench  thy  flame  in  Gaul. 
What  if  English  toil  and  blood 
Was  pour'd  forth,  even  as  a  flood  ! 
It  availed,  O  Liberty  ! 
To  dim,  but  not  extinguish  thee  ! 

Thou  art  Love :  the  rich  have  kist 
Thy  feet,  and  like  him  following  Christ, 
Given  their  substance  to  the  free, 
And  through  the  rough  world  follow'd  thee. 
Oh  turn  their  wealth  to  arms,  and  make 
War  for  thy  beloved  sake, 
On  wealth  and  war  and  fraud  ;  whence  they 
Drew  the  power  which  is  their  prey. 
Science,  and  poetry,  and  thought, 
Are  thy  lamps;  they  make  the  lot 
Of  the  dwellers  in  a  cot 
Such,  they  curse  their  maker  not. 
Spirit,  patience,  gentleness, 
All  that  can  adorn  and  bless, 
Art  thou :   let  deeds,  not  words,  express 
Thine  exceeding  loveliness. 

Let  a  great  assembly  be 
Of  the  fearless  and  the  free, 
On  some  spot  of  English  ground, 
Where  the  plains  stretch  wide  around. 
Let  the  blue  sky  overhead, 
The  green  earth,  on  which  ye  tread, 
All  that  must  eternal  be, 
Witness  the  solemnity. 
From  the  corners  uttermost 
Of  the  bounds  of  English  coast; 
From  every  hut,  village,  and  town, 
Where  those  who  live  and  suffer,  moan 
For  others'  misery,  or  their  own  : 
From  the  workhouse  and  the  prison, 


Where  pale  as  corpses  newly  risen, 

Women,  children,  young,  and  old, 

Groan  for  pain,  and  weep  for  cold ; 

From  the  haunts  of  daily  life, 

Where  is  waged  the  daily  strife 

With  common  wants  and  common  cares, 

Which  sow  the  human  heart  with  tares. 

Lastly,  from  the  palaces, 

Where  the  murmur  of  distress 

Echoes,  like  the  distant  sound 

Of  a  wind,  alive  around  ; 

Those  prison-halls  of  wealth  and  fashion, 

Where  some  few  feel  such  compassion 

For  those  who  groan,  and  toil,  and  wail, 

As  must  make  their  brethren  pale  ; 

Ye  who  suffer  woes  untold, 

Or  to  feel,  or  to  behold 

Your  lost  country  bought  and  sold 

With  a  price  of  blood  and  gold. 

Let  a  vast  assembly  be, 

And  with  great  solemnity 

Declare  with  ne'er  said  words,  that  ye 

Are,  as  God  has  made  ye,  free ! 

Be  your  strong  and  simple  words 
Keen  to  wound  as  sharpen'd  swords, 
And  wide  as  targes  let  them  be, 
With  their  shade  to  cover  ye. 
Let  the  tyrants  pour  around 
With  a  quick  and  startling  sound, 
Like  the  loosening  of  a  sea, 
Troops  of  arm'd  emblazonry. 
Let  the  charged  artillery  drive, 
Till  the  dead  air  seems  alive 
With  the  clash  of  clanging  wheels, 
And  the  tramp  of  horses'  heels. 
Let  the  fixed  bayonet 
Gleam  with  sharp  desire  to  wet 
Its  bright  point  in  English  blood, 
Looking  keen  as  one  for  food. 
Let  the  horseman's  scimitars 
Wheel  and  flash,  like  sphereless  stars. 
Thirsting  to  eclipse  their  burning 
In  a  sea  of  death  and  mourning. 
Stand  ye,  calm  and  resolute, 
Like  a  forest  close  and  mute, 
With  folded  arms,  and  looks  which  are 
Weapons  of  an  unvanquish'd  war. 
And  let  panic,  who  outspeeds 
The  career  of  armed  steeds, 
Pass,  a  disregarded  shade, 
Through  your  phalanx  undismay'd. 
Let  the  laws  of  your  own  land, 
Good  or  ill,  between  ye  stand, 
Hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot, 
Arbiters  of  the  dispute. 
The  old  laws  of  England — they 
Whose  reverend  heads  with  age  are  gray, 
Children  of  a  wiser  day  ; 
And  whose  solemn  voice  must  be 
Thine  own  echo — Liberty  ! 

On  those  who  first  should  violate 
Such  sacred  heralds  in  their  state, 
Rest  the  blood  that  must  ensue  ; 
And  it  will  not  rest  on  you. 
And  if  then  the  tyrants  dare, 
2x2 


282 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


Let  them  ride  among  you  there ; 
Slash,  and  stab,  and  maim,  and  hew ; 
What  they  like,  that  let  them  do. 
With  folded  arms  and  steady  eyes, 
And  little  fear,  and  less  surprise, 
Look  upon  them  as  they  slay, 
Till  their  rage  has  died  away : 
Then  they  will  return  with  shame, 
To  the  place  from  which  they  came, 
And  the  blood  thus  shed  will  speak 
In  hot  blushes  on  their  cheek : 

Every  woman  in  the  land 
Will  point  at  them  as  they  stand — 
They  will  hardly  dare  to  greet 
Their  acquaintance  in  the  street ; 
And  the  bold,  true  warriors, 
Who  have  hugg'd  danger  in  the  wars, 
Will  turn  to  those  who  would  be  free, 
Ashamed  of  such  base  company  : 
And  that  slaughter  to  the  nation 
Shall  steam  up  like  inspiration, 
Eloquent,  oracular, 
A  volcano  heard  afar : 
And  these  words  shall  then  become 
Like  oppression's  thunder'd  doom, 
Ringing  through  each  heart  and  brain, 
Heard  again — again — again  ! 
Rise  like  lions  after  slumber 
In  unvanquishable  number! 
Shake  your  chains  to  earth,  like  dew 
Which  in  sleep  had  fallen  on  you : 
Ye  are  many — they  are  few  ! 


A  LAMENT. 

SWIFTEU  far  than  summer's  flight, 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight, 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Art  thou  come  arid  gone  : 
As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead, 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled, 

I  am  left  alone,  alone. 

The  swallow  summer  comes  again, 
The  owlet  night  resumes  her  reign, 
But  the  wild  swan  youth  is  fain 

To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou. 
My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow, 
Sleep  itself  is  turn'd  to  sorrow, 
Vainly  would  my  winter  borrow 

Sunny  leaves  from  any  bough. 

Lilies  for  a  bridal  bed, 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head, 
Violets  for  a  maiden  dead, 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be  : 
On  the  living  grave  I  bear, 
Scatter  them  without  a  tear, 
Let  no  friend,  however  dear, 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear  for  me. 


THE  SUN  IS  WARM,  THE  SKY  IS  CLEAR. 

THE  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  moon's  transparent  light : 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light, 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean-floods, 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  solitude's. 

I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  seaweeds  strown : 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet!  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content,  surpassing  wealth, 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walk'd  with  inward  glory  crown'd — 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  : 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death,  like  sleep,  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan; 
They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 

Whom  men  love  not — and  yet  regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoy'd,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 


THE  HOURS,  FROM  PROMETHEUS. 

CARS  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds, 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds :  in  each  there  stands 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer,  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars  : 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed, 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before,       [locks 
And  now,  even  now,  they  clasp'd  it.  Their  bright 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair :   they  all 
Sweep  onward. 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


283 


TO  A   SKYLARK. 

HAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  arid  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star' of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  over- 
flow'd. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

With   music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her 
bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from 
the  view  : 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  m  uch  sweet  these  heavy -winged 
thieves. 


Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  Hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Match'd  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  1       [pain  "? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind!   what  ignorance  of 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest;  but  never  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ;      [thought. 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

THE  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  1 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdain'd  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  ;- 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me 1 


284 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


THE  CLOUD. 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rock'd  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits, 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fetter'd  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning-star  shines  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings.  [beneath, 

And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

1  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone, 
And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 


The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chain'd  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colour'd  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare,  [gleams, 

And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain,  [tomb, 

Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


STANZAS, 

WRITTEN   IN   DEJECTION,  NEAR   NAPLES. 

THE  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  light, 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light, 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  solitude's. 

I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  seaweeds  strown  : 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walk'd  with  inward  glory  crown'd — 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 
Other  I  see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live  and  call  life  pleasure  ; — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


285 


Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  : 
They  might  lament-^for  I  am  one 

Whom  men  love  not, — and  yet  regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
ill  linger,  though  enjoy'd,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 


THE  FUGITIVES. 


THE  waters  are  flashing, 
The  white  hail  is  dashing, 
The  lightnings  are  glancing, 
The  hoar-spray  is  dancing — 
Away  ! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling, 
The  thunder  is  tolling, 
The  forest  is  swinging, 
The  minister  bells  ringing — 
Come  away  ! 

The  earth  is  like  ocean, 
Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion  . 
Bird,  beast,  man,  and  worm, 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm — 

Come  away  ! 
ii. 

"  Our  boat  has  one  sail, 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale ; — 
A  bold  pilot  I  trow, 
Who  should  follow  us  now, — 

Shouted  he — 

And  she  cried  :  "  Ply  the  oar ; 
Put  off  gay  ly  from  shore  !" — 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death 
Mix'd  with  hail,  speck'd  their  path 
O'er  the  sea. 

And  from  isle,  tower,  and  rock, 
The  blue  beacon  cloud  broke, 
Though  dumb  in  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flash'd  fast, 
From  the  lee. 


"  And  fear'st  thou,  and  fear'st  thou  1 
And  see'st  thou,  and  hear'st  thou  1 
And  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 
I  and  thou  1" 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover — 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure, 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low  ; — 


While  around  the  lash'd  ocean, 
Like  mountains  in  motion, 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted, 
Sunk,  shatter'd,  and  shifted, 
To  and  fro. 

IV. 

In  the  court  of  the  fortress 
Beside  the  pale  portress, 
Like  a  blood-hound  well  beaten 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
By  shame ; 

On  the  topmost  watch-turret, 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  gray  tyrant  father, 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame ; 

And  with  curses  as  wild 
As  ere  clung  to  child, 
He  devotes  to  the  blast 
The  best,  loveliest,  and  last, 
Of  his  name  ! 


TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  MY  HEART. 

SHALL  we  roam,  my  love, 
To  the  twilight  grove, 

When  the  moon  is  rising  bright ; 
Oh,  I  '11  whisper  there, 
In  the  cool  night-air, 

What  I  dare  not  in  broad  day -light ! 

I'll  tell  thee  a  part 

Of  the  thoughts  that  start 

To  being  when  thou  art  nigh  ; 
And  thy  beauty,  more  bright 
Than  the  stars'  soft  light, 

Shall  seem  as  a  weft  from  the  sky. 

When  the  pale  moonbeam 
On  tower  and  stream 

Sheds  a  flood  of  silver  sheen, 
How  I  love  to  gaze 
As  the  cold  ray  strays 

O'er  thy  face,  my  heart's  throned  queen ! 

Wilt  thou  roam  with  me 
To  the  restless  sea, 

And  linger  upon  the  steep, 
And  list  to  the  flow 
Of  the  waves  below 

How  they  toss  and  roar  and  leap  1 

Those  boiling  waves 
And  the  storm  that  raves 

At  night  o'er  their  foaming  crest, 
Resemble  the  strife 
That,  from  earliest  life, 

The  passions  have  waged  in  my  breast. 

Oh,  come  then  and  rove 
To  the  sea  or  the  grove, 

When  the  moon  i-s  shining  bright, 
And  I'll  whisper  there, 
In  the  cool  night-air, 

What  I  dare  not  in  broad  day-light. 


FELICIA    HE  MANS. 


FELICIA  DOROTHEA  BROWNE  was  born  in 
Liverpool  on  the  twenty-first  of  September, 
1793.  Her  childhood  was  passed  among  the 
wild  mountain  scenery  of  Wales,  where  the 
earliest  and  most  constant  of  her  studies  was 
the  greatest  of  poets.  SHAKSPEARE  and  na- 
ture— nature  so  sublime  as  that  she  daily 
gazed  on — had  their  due  influence  in  fashion- 
ing a  mind  which  had  been  created  far  superior 
to  the  common  order  of  intellects,  and  before  she 
was  thirteen  years  of  age  Miss  BROWNE  had  a 
printed  collection  of  verses  before  the  world. 
From  this  period  to  the  end  of  her  history  she 
sent  forth  volume  after  volume,  each  surpass- 
ing its  predecessor  in  tenderness  and  beauty. 

At  nineteen  she  was  married  to  Captain 
HEMANS,  of  the  Fourth  Regiment.  He  was 
of  an  irritable  temperament,  and  his  health 
had  been  injured  by  the  vicissitudes  of  a  mili- 
tary life.  They  lived  together  unhappily  for 
several  years,  when  Captain  HEMANS  left 
England  for  Italy,  and  never  returned.  Mrs. 
HEMANS  continued  to  reside  with  her  mother 
and  her  sister,  Miss  MARY  ANNE  BROWNE, 
now  Mrs.  GRAY,  a  poetess  of  some  reputation, 
near  St.  Asaph,  in  North  Wales,  where  she 
devoted  her  attention  to  literature  and  to  the 
education  of  her  children,  five  sons,  in  whom 
all  her  affections  from  this  time  were  centered. 
Here  she  wrote  The  Restoration  of  the  Works 
of  Art  to  Italy,  Modern  Greece,  Translations 
from  Camoens,  Wallace,  Dartmoor,  The  Scep- 
tic, WTelsh  Melodies,  Historic  Scenes,  The 
Siege  of  Valencia,  The  Vespers  of  Palermo, 
The  Forest  Sanctuary,  The  Songs  of  the  Af- 
fections, Records  of  Women,  and  the  Lays 
of  Many  Lands. 

The  death  of  her  mother,  in  1827,  induced 
Mrs.  HEMANS  to  leave  Wales  and  reside  at 
Wavertree,  near  Liverpool.  While  here  she 
made  two  visits  to  Scotland,  and  was  warmly 
received  by  JEFFREY,  WALTER  SCOTT,  and 
the  other  eminent  literary  persons  of  the 
northern  metropolis.  On  her  return  from  her 
second  tour  in  Scotland,  she  changed  her  resi- 
dence from  Wavertree  to  Dublin,  where  she 
published  her  Hymns  for  Children,  National 
Lyrics,  and  Songs  for  Music. 


Her  domestic  sorrows,  and  the  earnestness 
with  which  she  devoted  herself  to  literary 
pursuits,  had  long  before  impaired  her  health  ; 
and  now  her  decline  became  rapid,  and  in- 
duced forebodings  of  death.  Her  poems,  writ- 
ten in  this  period,  were  marked  by  a  melan- 
choly despondency,  yet  with  a  Christian 
resignation.  After  an  illness  singularly  pain- 
ful and  protracted,  she  died  on  the  sixteenth 
of  May,  1835,  in  the  forty-second  year  of  her 
age,  and  was  buried  in  the  vault  of  St.  Anne's, 
in  Dublin. 

The  most  remarkable  characteristics  of  Mrs. 
HEMANS'S  poetry  are  a  religious  purity  and  a 
womanly  delicacy  of  feeling,  never  exagge- 
rated, rarely  forgotten.  Writing  less  of  love, 
in  its  more  special  acceptation,  than  most 
female  poets,  her  poems  are  still  unsurpassed 
in  feminine  tenderness.  Devotion  to  GOD,  and 
quenchless  affection  for  kindred,  for  friends, 
for  the  suffering,  glow  through  all  her  writ- 
ings. Her  sympathies  were  not  universal. 
They  appear  often  to  be  limited  by  country, 
creed,  or  condition;  and  she  betrays  a  reve- 
rent admiration  for  rank,  power,  and  historic 
renown.  The  trappings  of  royalty  and  nobi- 
lity are  to  her  no  tinsel,  but  bespeak  merit, 
wisdom,  greatness  of  soul;  they  imply  virtue, 
and  almost  excuse  vice.  The  panoply  of  war 
she  deems  a  web  of  finest  tissues  ;  the  sword 
the  minister  of  Justice,  the  avenger  of  Inno- 
cence :  forgetful  that  it  has  more  often  availed 
to  commit  wrong  than  to  redress  wrong,  to 
spread  desolation  than  to  arrest  it.  Yet  as  the 
poet  of  home,  a  painter  of  the  affections,  she 
was  perhaps  the  most  touching  and  beauti- 
ful writer  of  her  age.  The  tone  of  her  poetry 
is  indeed  monotonous ;  it  is  pervaded  by  the 
tender  sadness  which  for  ever  preyed  upon 
her  spirit,  and  made  her  an  exile  from  society; 
but  it  is  all  informed  with  beauty,  and  rich  with 
most  apposite  imagery  and  fine  descriptions. 

Many  editions  of  the  works  of  Mrs.  HE- 
MANS  have  appeared  in  this  country,  of  which 
the  best,  indeed  the  only  one  that  has  any 
pretensions  to  completeness,  is  that  of  Lea 
and  Blanchard,  in  seven  volumes,  with  a  pre- 
liminary notice  by  Mrs.  SIGOURNEY. 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


287 


JOAN  OF  ARC,  IN  RHEIMS. 

THAT  was  a  joyous  day  in  Rheims  of  old, 
When  peal  on  peal  of  mighty  music  roll'd 
Forth  from  her  throng'd  cathedral ;  while  around 
A  multitude,  whose  billows  made  no  sound, 
Chain'd  to  a  hush  of  wonder,  though  elate 
With  victory,  listen'd  at  their  temple's  gate. 
And  what  was  done  within? — Within,  the  light 
Through  the  rich  gloom  of  pictured  windows 

flowing, 

Tinged  with  soft  awfulness  a  stately  sight,      [ing 
The  chivalry  of  France,  their  proud  heads  bow- 
In  martial  vassalage  ! — while  midst  that  ring, 
And  shadow'd  by  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Received  his  birthright's  crown.  For  this  the  hymn 

Swell'd  out  like  rushing  waters,  and  the  day 
With  the  sweet  censer's  misty  breath  grew  dim, 
As  through  long  aisles  it  floated  o'er  the  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles.     But  who,  alone 
And  unapproach'd,  beside  the  altar-stone,        [mo> 
With  the  white  banner,  forth  like  sunshine  stream- 
And  the  gold  helm,  through  clouds  of  fragrance 

gleaming, 

Silent  and  radiant  stood  ? — The  helm  was  raised, 
And  the  fair  face  reveal'd,  that  upward  gazed. 

Intensely  worshipping: — a  still,  clear  face 
Youthful,  but  brightly  solemn  ! — Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek, 

Yet  glorified  with  inspiration's  trace 
On  its  pure  paleness;  while,  enthroned  above, 
The  pictured  virgin,  with  her  smile  of  love, 
Seem'd  bending  o'er  her  votaress.  That  slight  form! 
Was  that  the  leader  through  the  battle-storm  1 
Had  the  soft  light  in  that  adoring  eye 
Guided  the  warrior  where  the  swords  flash'd  high? 
'Twas  so,  even  so! — and  thou,  the  shepherd's  child, 
Joanne,  the  lowly  dreamer  of  the  wild  ! 
Never  before,  and  never  since  that  hour, 
Hath  woman,  mantled  with  victorious  power, 
Stood  forth  as  thou  beside  the  shrine  didst  stand, 
Holy  amid  the  knighthood  of  the  land ; 
And,  beautiful  with  joy  and  with  renown, 
Lift  thy  white  banner  o'er  the  olden  crown, 
Ransom'd  for  France  by  thee  ! 

The  rites  are  done. 

Now  let  the  dome  with  trumpet-notes  be  shaken, 
And  bid  the  echoes  of  the  tombs  awaken, 

And  come  thou  forth,  that  Heaven's  rejoicing 

sun 
May  give  thee  welcome  from  thine  own  blue  skies, 

Daughter  of  victory  ! — A  triumphant  strain, 
A  proud,  rich  stream  of  warlike  melodies, 

Gush'd  through  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane, 
And  forth  she  came.     Then  rose  a  nation's  sound, 
Oh  !  what  a  power  to  bid  the  quick  heart  bound 
The  wind  bears  onward  with  the  stormy  cheer 
Man  gives  to  glory  on  her  high  career ! 
Is  there  indeed  such  power? — far  deeper  dwells 
In  one  kind  household  voice,  to  reach  the  cells 
Whence  happiness  flows  forth !     The  shouts  that 

fill'd 

The  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  still'd 
One  moment ;  arid  in  that  brief  pause,  the  tone 
As  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  home  had  blown, 


Sank  on  the  bright  maid's  heart. — "Joanne !" — 

Who  spoke  [grew 

Like  those  whose  childhood  with  her  childhood 

Under  one  roof? — "Joanne!" — that  murmur  broke 

With  sounds  of  weeping  forth  ! — she  turn'd — 

she  knew 

Beside  her,  mark'd  from  all  the  thousands  there, 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  his  silver  hair, 
The  stately  shepherd ;  and  the  youth,  whose  joy 
From  his  dark  eye  flash'd  proudly;  and  the  boy 
The  youngest-born,  that  ever  loved  her  best ; 
"  Father  !  and  ye,  my  brothers  !"     On  the  breast 
Of  that  gray  sire  she  sank — and  swiftly  back, 
Even  in  an  instant,  to  their  native  track     [more — 
Her  free  thoughts  flow'd.     She  saw  the  pomp  no 
The  plumes,  the  banners : — to  her  cabin-door, 
And  to  the  Fairy's  fountain  in  the  glade, 
Where  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  play'd 
And  to  her  hamlet's  chapel,  where  it  rose 
Hallowing  the  forest  unto  deep  repose, 
Her  spirit  turn'd.     The  very  wood-note,  sung 

In  early  spring-time  by  the  bird,  which  dwelt 
Where  o'er  her  father's  roof  the  beech-leaves  hung, 

Was  in  her  heart ;  a  music  heard  and  felt, 
Winning  her  back  to  nature.     She  unbound 
The  helm  of  many  battles  from  her  head, 
And,  with  her  bright  locks  bow'd  to  sweep  the 

ground, 

Lifting  her  voice  up,  wept  for  joy,  and  said — 
"  Bless  me,  my  father,  bless  me !  and  with  thee, 
To  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen-tree, 
Let  me  return !" 

Oh  !  never  did  thine  eye 
Through  the  green  haunts  of  happy  infancy 
Wander  again,  Joanne  ! — too  much  of  fame 
Had  shed  its  radiance  on  thy  peasant  name ; 
And  bought  alone  by  gifts  beyond  all  price, 
The  trusting  heart's  repose,  the  paradise 
Of  home  with  all  it  loves,  doth  fate  allow 
The  crown  of  glory  unto  woman's  brow. 


THE  AMERICAN  FOREST  GIRL. 

WILDLY  and  mournfully  the  Indian  drum 

On  the  deep  hush  of  moonlight  forests  broke; — 
Sing  us  a  death-song,  for  thine  hour  is  come," — 

So  the  red  warriors  to  their  captive  spoke. 
Still,  and  amidst  those  dusky  forms  alone, 

A  youth,  a  fair-hair'd  youth  of  England  stood, 
ike  a  king's  son ;  though  from  his  cheek  had  flown 

The  mantling  crimson  of  the  island  blood, 
And  his  press'd  lips  look'd  marble.  Fiercely  bright, 
And  high  around  him,  blazed  the  fires  of  night, 
locking  beneath  the  cedars  to  and  fro, 
As  the  wind  pass'd,  and  with  a  fitful  glow 
sighting  the  victim's  face.    But  who  could  tell 
Of  what  within  his  secret  heart  befell,       [thought 
Cnown  but  to  Heaven  that  hour? — Perchance  a 
Df  his  far  home,  then  so  intensely  wrought 
That  its  full  image,  pictured  to  his  eye 
Dn  the  dark  ground  of  mortal  agony, 
lose  clear  as  day  ! — and  he  might  see  the  band 
)f  his  young  sisters  wandering  hand  in  hand, 


288 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


Where  the  laburnum  droop'd ;  or  haply  binding 
The  jasmine,  up  the  door's  low  pillars  winding ; 
Or,  as  day  closed  upon  their  gentle  mirth, 
Gathering  with  braided  hair  around  the  hearth 
Where  sat  their  mother ; — and  that  mother's  face 
Its  grave,  sweet  smile  yet  wearing  in  the  place 
Where  so  it  ever  smiled  !     Perchance  the  prayer 
Learn 'd  at  her  knee  came  back  on  his  despair ; 
The  blessing  from  her  voice,  the  very  tone      [gone  ! 
Of  her  "Good-night,"  might  breathe  from  boyhood 
He  started  and  look'd  up : — thick  cypress  boughs 

Full  of  strange  sound,  waved  o'er  him,  darkly  red 
In  the  broad,  stormy  firelight; — savage  brows, 

With  tall  plumes  crested  and  wild  hues  o'er- 

spread 

Girt  him  like  feverish  phantoms ;  and  pale  stars 
Look'd  through  the  branches  as  through  dungeon 

bars, 

Shedding  no  hope.     He  knew,  he  felt  his  doom — 
Oh !  what  a  tale  to  shadow  with  his  gloom 
That  happy  hall  in  England  !     Idle  fear !       [hear 
Would  the  winds  tell  it '!      Who  might  dream  or 
The  secret  of  the  forests  7     To  the  stake 

They  bound  him;  and  that  proud  young  soldier 
His  father's  spirit  in  his  breast  to  wake,       [strove 

Trusting  to  die  in  silence !     He,  the  love 
Of  many  hearts  ! — the  fondly  rear'd — the  fair, 
Gladdening  all  eyes  to  see  !     And  fetter'd  there 
He  stood  beside  his  death-pyre,  and  the  brand 
Flamed  up  to  light  it  in  the  chieftain's  hand. 
He  thought  upon  his  God.     Hush  !  hark ! — a  cry 
Breaks  on  the  stern  and  dread  solemnity, — 
A  step  hath  pierced  the  ring !     Who  dares  intrude 
On  the  dark  hunters  in  their  vengeful  mood  1 
A  girl — a  young,  slight  girl — a  fawn-like  child 
Of  green  savannas  and  the  leafy  wild, 
Springing  unmark'd  till  then,  as  some  lone  flower, 
Happy  because  the  sunshine  is  its  dower; 
Yet  one  that  knew  how  early  tears  are  shed, — 
For  hers  had  mourn'd  a  playmate  brother  dead. 
She  had  sat  gazing  on  the  victim  long, 
Until  the  pity  of  her  soul  grew  strong; 
And,  by  its  passion's  deepening  fervour  sway'd, 
Even  to  the  stake  she  rush'd,  and  gently  laid 
His  bright  head  on  her  bosom,  and  around 
His  form  her  slender  arms  to  shield  it  wound 
Like  close  Liannes ;  then  raised  her  glittering  eye 
And  clear-toned  voice  that  said,  "  He  shall  not 

die!" 
«  He  shall  not  die  !" — the  gloomy  forest  thrill'd 

To  that  sweet  sound.     A  sudden  wonder  fell 
On  the  fierce  throng;  and  heart  and  hand  were  still'd, 

Struck  down,  as  by  the  whisper  of  a  spell. 
They  gazed;  their  dark  souls  bow'd  before  the  maid, 
She  of  the  dancing  step  in  wood  and  glade  ! 
And,  as  her  cheek  flush'd  through  its  olive  hue, 
As  her  black  tresses  to  the  night-wind  flew, 
Something  o'ermasterd  them  from  that  young mein; 
Something  of  heaven,  in  silence  felt  and  seen ; 
And  seeming,  to  their  child-like  faith,  a  token 
That  the  Great  Spirit  by  her  voice  had  spoken, 
They  loosed  thebonds  that  held  theircaptive'sbreath: 
From  his  pale  lips  they  took  the  cup  of  death  : 
They  quench'd  the  brand  beneath  the  cypress  tree; 
"Away,"  they  cried,  "young  stranger,  thou  art  free!" 


THE  STRANGER  IN  LOUISIANA. 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look'd  for  the  youth  of  the  sunny  glance, 
Whose  step  was  the  fleetest  in  chase  or  dance  ! 
The  light  of  his  eye  was  a  joy  to  see, 
The  path  of  his  arrows  a  storm  to  flee ! 
But  there  came  a  voice  from  a  distant  shore: 
He  was  call'd — he  i-s  found  'midst  his  tribe  no  more ! 
He  is  not  in  his  place  when  the  night-fires  burn, 
But  we  look  for  him  still — he  will  yet  return  ! 
— His  brother  sat  with  a  drooping  brow 
In  the  gloom  of  the  shadowing  cypress  bough, 
We  roused  him — we  bade  him  no  longer  pine, 
For  we  heard  a  step — but  the  step  was  thine. 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look'd  for  the  maid  of  the  mournful  song, 
Mournful,  though  sweet — she  hath  left  us  long ! 
We  told  her  the  youth  of  her  love  was  gone, 
And  she  went  forth  to  seek  him — she  pass'd  alone; 
We  hear  not  her  voice  when  the  woods  are  still, 
From  the  bower  where  it  sang,  like  a  silvery  rill. 
The  joy  of  her  sire  with  her  smile  is  fled, 
The  winter  is  white  on  his  lonely  head, 
He  hath  none  by  his  side  when  the  wilds  we  track, 
He  hath  none  when  we  rest — yet  she  comes  not 

back! 

We  look'd  for  her  eye  on  the  feast  to  shine, 
For  her  breezy  step — but  the  step  was  thine ! 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look'd  for  the  chief  who  hath  left  the  spear 
And  the  bow  of  his  battles  forgotten  here  ! 
We  look'd  for  the  hunter,  whose  bride's  lament 
On  the  wind  of  the  forest  at  eve  is  sent : 
We  look'd  for  the  first-born,  whose  mother's  cry 
Sounds  wild  and  shrill  through  the  midnight  sky  ! 
— Where  are  they? — thou'rt  seeking  some  distant 

coast — 

Oh,  ask  of  them  stranger ! — send  back  the  lost ! 
Tell  them  we  mourn  by  the  dark-blue  streams, 
Tell  them  our  lives  but  of  them  are  dreams ; 
Tell  how  we  sat  in  the  gloom  to  pine, 
And  to  watch  for  a  step — but  the  step  was  thine ! 


LEAVE  ME  NOT  YET. 

LEAVE  me  not  yet — through  rosy  skies  from  far, 
But  now  the  song-birds  to  their  nest  return ; 

The  quivering  image  of  the  first  pale  star 
On  the  dim  lake  yet  scarce  begins  to  burn  : 
Leave  me  not  yet ! 

Not  yet ! — oh,  hark !  low  tones  from  hidden  streams, 
Piercing  the  shivery  leaves,  e'en  now  arise ; 

Their  voices  mingle  not  with  daylight  dreams, 
They  are  of  vesper  hymns  and  harmonies  ; 
Leave  me  not  yet ! 

My  thoughts  are  like  those  gentle  sounds,  dear  love ! 

By  day  shut  up  in  their  own  still  recess, 
They  wait  for  dews  on  earth,  for  stars  above, 

Then  to  breathe  out  their  soul  of  tenderness; 
Leave  me  not  yet ! 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


289 


THE  TRAVELLER  AT  THE  SOURCE 
OF  THE  NILE. 

1^  sunset's  light  o'er  Afric  thrown, 

A  wanderer  proudly  stood* 
Beside  the  well-spring,  deep  and  lone, 

Of  Egypt's  awful  flood  ; 
The  cradle  of  that  mi-ghty  birth, 
So  long  a  hidden  thing  to  earth. 

He  heard  its  life's  first  murmuring  sound, 

A  low,  mysterious  lone  ; 
A  music  sought,  but  never  found 

By  kings  and  warriors  gone ; 
He  listen'd — and  his  heart  beat  high — 
That  was  the  song  of  victory  ! 

The  rapture  of  a  conqueror's  mood 

Rush'd  burning  through  his  frame, 

The  depths  of  that  green  solitude 
Its  torrents  could  not  tame, 

Though  stillness  lay,  with  eve's  last  smile, 

Round  those  calm  fountains  of  the  Nile. 

Night  came  with  stars; — across  his  soul 
There  swept  a  sudden  change, 

E'en  at  the  pilgrim's  glorious  goal, 
A  shadow  dark  and  strange, 

Breathed  from  the  thought",  so  swift  to  fall 

O'er  triumph's  hour — And  is  this  all? 

No  more  than  this  ! — what  seem'd  it  now 
First  by  that  spring  to  stand  1 

A  thousand  streams  of  lovelier  flow 
Bathed  his  own  mountain  land  ! 

Whence,  far  o'er  waste  and  ocean  track, 

Their  wild,  sweet  voices  call'd  him  back. 

They  call'd  him  back  to  many  a  glade, 
His  childhood's  haunt  of  play, 

Where  brightly  through  the  beechen  shade 
Their  waters  glanced  away ; 

They  call'd  him,  with  their  sounding  waves, 

Back  to  his  father's  hills  and  graves. 

But,  darkly  mingling  with  the  thought 

Of  each  familiar  scene, 
Rose  up  a  fearful  vision,  fraught 

With  all  that  lay  between, — 
The  Arab's  lance,  the  desert's  gloom, 
The  whirling  sands,  the  red  simoom ! 

Where  was  the  glow  of  power  and  pride  ? 

The  spirit  born  to  roam? 
His  weary  heart  within  him  died 

With  yearnings  for  his  home; 
All  vainly  struggling  to  repress 
That  gush  of  painful  tenderness. 

He  wept — the  stars  of  Afric's  heaven 

Beheld  his  bursting  tears, 
E'en  on  that  spot  where  fate  had  given 

The  meed  of  toiling  years. 
O  happiness !   how  far  we  flee 
Thine  own  sweet  paths  in  search  of  thee  ! 
37 


THE  PALM  TREE. 

IT  waved  not  through  an  Eastern  sky, 
Beside  a  fount  of  Araby ; 
It  was  not  fann'd  by  southern  breeze 
In  some  green  isle  of  Indian  seas, 
Nor  did  its  graceful  shadow  sleep 
O'er  stream  of  Afric,  lone  and  deep. 

But  fair  the  exiled  palm-tree  grew 
Midst  foliage  of  no  kindred  hue; 
Through  the  laburnum's  dropping  gold 
Rose  the  light  shaft  of  orient  mould, 
And  Europe's  violets,  faintly  sweet, 
Purpled  the  moss-beds  at  its  feet. 

Strange  look'd  it  there ! — the  willow  stream'd 
Where  silvery  waters  near  it  gleam'd ; 
The  lime-bough  lured  the  honey-bee 
To  murmur  by  the  desert's  tree, 
And  showers  of  snowy  roses  made 
A  lustre  in  its  fan-like  shade. 

There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours — 
Rich  music  fill'd  that  garden's  bowers ; 
Lamps  that  from  flowering  branches  hung, 
On  sparks  of  dew  soft  colours  flung, 
And  bright  forms  glanced — a  fairy  show — 
Under  the  blossoms  to  and  fro. 

But  one,  a  lone  one,  midst  the  throng, 
Seem'd  reckless  of  all  dance  or  song : 
He  was  a  youth  of  dusky  mein, 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been, 
Of  crested  brow,  and  long  black  hair — 
A  stranger,  like  the  palm-tree,  there 

And  slowly,  sadly,  moved  his  plumes, 
Glittering  athwart  the  leafy  glooms  ; 
He  pass'd  the  pale  green  olives  by, 
Nor  won  the  chestnut-flowers  his  eye  ; 
But  when  to  that  sole  palm  he  came, 
Then  shot  a  rapture  through  his  frame  ! 

To  him,  to  him  its  rustling  spoke, 

The  silence  of  his  soul  it  broke  ! 

It  whisper'd  of  his  own  bright  isle, 

That  lit  the  ocean  with  a  smile ; 

Ay,  to  his  ear  that  native  tone 

Had  something  of  the  sea-wave's  moan  ! 

His  mother's  cabin  home,  that  lay 
Where  feathery  cocoas  fringed  the  bay ; 
The  dashing  of  his  brethren's  oar, 
The  conch-note  heard  along  the  shore ; — 
All  through  his  wakening  bosom  swept, 
He  clasp'd  his  country's  tree  and  wept ! 

Oh !  scorn  him  not ! — the  strength  whereby 
The  patriot  girds  himself  to  die, 
The  unconquerable  power,  which  fills 
The  freeman  battling  on  his  hills, 
These  have  one  fountain  deep  and  clear — 
The  same  whence  gush'd  that  child-like  tear! 
2  B 


290 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


THE  BRIDE'S  FAREWELL. 

WHY  do  I  weep  ? — to  leave  the  vine 

Whose  clusters  o'er  me  bend, — 
The  myrtle — yet,  oh  !  call  it  mine  ! — 

The  flowers  I  loved  to  tend. 
A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dear 

Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep, 
I  leave  my  sunny  childhood  here, 

Oh,  therefore  let  me  weep ! 

I  leave  thee.  sister  !  we  have  play'd  v 

Through  many  a  joyous  hour, 
Where  the  silvery  green  of  the  olive  shade 

Hung  dim  o'er  fount  and  bower. 
Yes,  thou  and  I,  by  stream,  by  shore, 

In  song,  in  prayer,  in  sleep, 
Have  been  as  we  may  be  no  more — 

Kind  sister,  let  me  weep  ! 

I  leave  thee,  father  !  Eve's  bright  moon 

Must  now  light  other  feet, 
With  the  gather'd  grapes,  and  the  lyre  in  tune, 

Thy  homeward  step  to  greet. 
Thou  in  whose  voice,  to  bless  thy  child, 

Lay  tones  of  love  so  deep, 
Whose  eye  o'er  all  my  youth  hath  smiled — 

I  leave  thee  !  let  me  weep  ! 

Mother  !  I  leave  thee !  on  thy  breas 

Pouring  out  joy  and  wo, 
I  have  found  that  holy  place  of  rest 

Still  changeless, — yet  I  go  ! 
Lips,  that  have  lull'd  me  with  your  strain, 

Eyes,  that  have  watch'd  my  sleep: 
Will  earth  give  love  like  yours  again  1 

Sweet  mother  !  let  me  weep  ! 


THE  HOMES   OF  ENGLAND. 

THK  stately  homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand  ! 
Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees, 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land. 
The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 

Through  shade  and  sunny  glenm, 
And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light ! 
There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  song, 

Or  childhood's  tale  is  told  ; 
Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  homes  of  England  ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath-hours ! 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell's  chime 

Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn ; 
All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 


The  cottage  homes  of  England  ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains, 
They  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet-fanes. 
Through  globing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves, 
And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 

The  free,  fair  homes  of  England ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall, 
May  hearts  of  native  proof  be  rear'd 

To  guard  each  hallow'd  wall ! 
And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves, 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 
Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  country  and  its  God  ! 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH. 

LEAVES  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set, — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer : 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  sang,  and  wine; 

There  comes  a  day  for  grief's  o'erwhelmingpower, 
A  time  for  softer  tears, — but  all  are  thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripen'd  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death  ! 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain: 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  4ook  for  thee? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  1 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale?— 
They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die  ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth — and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest, — 

Thou  art  where  fie  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beats  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death ! 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


291 


MOZART'S  REQUIEM. 


A  REatriEw  !  —  and  for  whom  ? 

For  beauty  in  its  bloom  1 
For  valour  fallen  —  a  broken  rose  or  sword  ? 

A  dirge  for  king  or  chief, 

With  pomp  of  stately  grief, 
Banner,  and  torch,  and  waving  plume  deplored  ? 

Not  so,  it  is  not  so  ! 

That  warning  voice  I  know, 
From  other  worlds  a  strange,  mysterious  tone  ; 

A  solemn  funeral  air 

It  call'd  me  to  prepare, 
And  my  heart  answer'd  secretly  —  my  own  ! 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

In  links  of  joy  and  pain 
Mighty  the  troubled  spirit  to  enthral  ! 

And  let  me  breathe  my  dower 

Of  passion  and  of  power 
Full  into  that  deep  lay  —  the  last  of  all  ! 

The  last  !  —  and  I  must  go 

From  this  bright  world  below, 
This  realm  of  sunshine,  ringing  with  sweet  sound  ! 

Must  leave  its  festal  skies, 

With  all  their  melodies, 
That  ever  in  my  breast  glad  echoes  found  ! 

Yet  have  I  known  it  long; 

Too  restless  and  too  strong 
Within  this  clay  hath  been  the  o'ermastering  flame; 

Swift  thoughts,  that  came  and  went, 

Like  torrents  o'er  me  sent, 
Have  shaken,  as  a  reed,  my  thrilling  frame. 

Like  perfumes  on  the  wind, 

Which  none  may  stay  or  bind, 
The  beautiful  comes  floating  through  my  soul  ; 

I  strive  with  yearnings  vain, 

The  spirit  to  detain 
Of  the  deep  harmonies  that  past  me  roll  ! 

Therefore  disturbing  dreams 

Trouble  the  secret  streams 
And  founts  of  music  that  o'erflow  my  breast  ; 

Something  far  more  divine 

Than  may  on  earth  be  mine, 
Haunts  my  worn  heart,  and  will  not  let  me  rest. 

Shall  I  then  fear  the  tone 

That  breathes  from  worlds  unknown?  — 
Surely  these  feverish  aspirations  there 

Shall  grasp  their  full  desire, 

And  this  unsettled  fire, 
Burn  calmly,  brightly,  in  immortal  air. 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 

To  earthly  joy  and  pain 
A  rich,  and  deep,  and  passionate  farewell  ! 

I  pour  each  fervent  thought 

With  fear,  hope,  trembling  fraught, 
Into  the  notes  that  o'er  my  dust  shall  swell. 


THE  DYING  IMPROVISATORE. 

THE  spirit  of  my  land  ! 
It  visits  me  once  more  ! — though  I  must  die 
Far  from  the  myrtles  which  thy  breeze  has  fann'd, 

My  own  bright  Italy ! 

It  is,  it  is  thy  breath, 

Which  stirs  my  soul  e'en  yet,  as  wavering  flame 
Is  shaken  by  the  wind ; — in  life  and  death 

Still  trembling,  yet  the  same. 

Oh  !  that  love's  quenchless  power 
Might  waft  my  voice  to  fill  thy  summer  sky, 
And  through  thy  groves  its  dying  music  shower, 

Italy!   Italy! 

The  nightingale  is  there, 

The  sunbeam's  glow,  the  citron-flower's  perfume, 
The  south-wind's  whisper  in  the  scented  air, — 

It  will  not  pierce  the  tomb ! 

Never,  oh  !  never  more, 

On  thy  Rome's  purple  heaven  mine  eye  shall  dwell, 
Or  watch  the  bright  waves  melt  along  thy  shore — 

My  Italy,  farewell ! 

Alas  ! — thy  hills  among, 
Had  I  but  left  a  memory  of  my  name, 
Of  love  and  grief  one  deep,  true,  fervent  song, 

Unto  immortal  fame  ! 

But,  like  a  lute's  brief  tone, 
Like  a  rose-odour  on  the  breezes  cast, 
Like  a  swift  flush  of  day-spring,  seen  and  gone, 

So  hath  my  spirit  pass'd  ! 

Pouring  itself  away, 
As  a  wild  bird  amidst  the  foliage  turns 
That  which  within  him  triumphs,  beats,  or  burns, 

Into  a  fleeting  lay ; 

That  swells,  and  floats,  and  dies. 
Leaving  no  echo  to  the  summer  woods 
Of  the  rich  breathings  and  impassion'd  sighs, 

Which  thrill'd  their  solitudes. 

Yet,  yet  remember  me, 

Friends,  that  upon  its  murmurs  oft  have  hung, 
When  from  my  bosom,  joyously  and  free, 

The  fiery  fountain  sprung. 

Under  the  dark,  rich  blue 
Of  midnight  heavens,  and  on  the  star-lit  sea, 
And  when  woods  kindle  into  spring's  first  hue, 

Sweet  friends,  remember  me  ! 

And  in  the  marble  halls, 

Where  life's  full  glow  the  dreams  of  beauty  wear, 
And  poet-thoughts  embodied  light  the  walls, 

Let  me  be  with  you  there ! 

Fain  would  I  bind  for  you 
My  memory  with  all  glorious  things  to  dwell ; 
Fain  bid  all  lovely  sounds  my  name  renew, — 

Sweet  friends,  blight  land,  farewell ! 


292 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


THE  CHILDE'S  DESTINY. 

"And  none  did  love  him, — not  his  lemans  dear, — 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman's  care  ; 
And  where  these  are,  light  Eros  finds  a  frere." 

BYRON. 

No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill, 

No  wizard  gaunt  and  grim, 
Went  up  by  night  to  heath  or  hill, 

To  read  the  stars  for  him ; 
The  merriest  girl  in  all  the  land 

Of  vine-encircled  France 
Bestow'd  upon  his  brow  and  hand 

Her  philosophic  glance: 
"  I  bind  thee  with  a  spell,"  said  she, 

"  I  sign  thee  with  a  sign  ; 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee, 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine  ! 

"  And  trust  me,  'tis  not  that  thy  cheek 

Is  colourless  and  cold, 
Nor  that  thine  eye  is  slow  to  speak 

What  only  eyes  have  told  ; 
For  many  a  cheek  of  paler  white 

Hath  blush'd  with  passion's  kiss ; 
And  many  an  eye  of  lesser  light 

Hath  caught  its  fire  from  bliss; 
Yet  while  the  rivers  seek  the  sea, 

And  while  the  young  stars  shine, 
No  woman's  love  shall  light  on  thee, 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine ! 

"And  'tis  not  that  thy  spirit,  awed 

By  beauty's  numbing  spell, 
Shrinks  from  the  force  or  from  the  fraud 

Which  beauty  loves  so  well ; 
For  thou  hast  learn'd  to  watch  and  wake, 

And  swear  by  earth  and  sky ; 
And  thou  art  very  bold  to  take 

What  we  must  still  deny; 
I  cannot  tell :  the  charm  was  wrought 

By  other  threads  than  mine, 
The  lips  are  lightly  begg'd  or  bought, 

The  heart  may  not  be  thine ! 

"  Yet  thine  the  brightest  smile  shall  be 

That  ever  beauty  wore, 
And  confidence  from  two  or  three, 

And  compliments  from  more  ; 
And  one  shall  give,  perchance  hath  given, 

What  only  is  not  love, — 
Friendship,  oh  !  such  as  saints  in  heaven 

Rain  on  us  from  above. 
If  she  shall  meet  thee  in  the  bower, 

Or  name  thee  in  the  shrine, 
Oh  !  wear  the  ring,  and  guard  the  flower, — 

Her  heart  may  not  be  thine  ! 

"  Go,  set  thy  boat  before  the  blast, 

Thy  breast  before  the  gun, — 
The  haven  shall  be  reach'd  at  last, 

The  battle  shall  be  won  ; 
Or  muse  upon  thy  country's  laws, 

Or  strike  thy  country's  lute, 
And  patriot  hands  shall  sound  applause, 

And  lovely  lips  be  mute : 


Go,  dig  the  diamond  from  the  wave, 
The  treasure  from  the  mine, 

Enjoy  the  wreath,  the  gold,  the  grave, 
No  woman's  heart  is  thine  \ 

"  I  charm  thee  from  the  agony 

Which  others  feel  or  feign  ; 
From  anger,  and  from  jealousy, 

From  doubt,  and  from  disdain  ; 
I  bid  thee  wear  the  scorn  of  years 

Upon  the  cheek  of  youth, 
And  curl  the  lip  at  passion's  tears, 

And  shake  the  head  at  truth: 
While  there  is  bliss  in  revelry, 

Forgetfulness  in  wine, 
Be  thou  from  woman's  love  as  free 

As  woman  is  from  thine  !" 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

THE  breaking  waves  dash'd  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky, 
Their  giant  branches  toss'd  ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
W^hen  a  band  of  exiles  moor'd  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came, 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear, — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea ! 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free  ! 

The  ocean-eagle  soar'd 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roar'd — 

This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim-band — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow,  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 
They  have  left  unstain'd  what  there  they  found — 

Freedom  to  worship  God  ! 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


293 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO. 

THE  warrior  bow'd  his  crested  head,  and  tamed 

his  heart  of  fire, 
And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-im- 

prison'd  sire ; 
« I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress  keys,  I  bring  my 

captive  train, 
I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord ! — oh,  break 

my  father's  chain  !" 

"Rise,  rise!   even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ran- 

som'd  man  this  day ; 
Mount  thy  good  horse,  and  thou  and  I  will  meet 

him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on 

his  steed, 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's 

foamy  speed. 

And  lo !  from  far,  as  on  they  press'd,  there  came 

a  glittering  band, 
With  one  that  'midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader 

in  the  land ; 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste  !    for  there,  in  very 

truth,  is  he. 

The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearn'd 
'so  long  to  see." 

His  dark  eye  flash'd,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his 

cheek's  blood  came  and  went ; 
He  reach'd  that  gray-hair'd  chieftain's  side,  and 

there,  dismounting,  bent ; 
A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand 

he  took, — 
What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery 

spirit  shook? 

That  hand  was  cold — a  frozen  thing — it  dropp'd 

from  his  like  lead, — 
He  look'd  up  to  the  face  above — the  face  was  of 

the  dead ! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow — the  brow 

was  fix'd  and  white; — 
He  met  at  last  his  father's  eyes — but  in  them  was 

no  sight ! 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprung,  and   gazed,  but 

who  could  paint  that  gaze] 
They  hush'd  their  very  hearts,  that  saw  its  horror 

and  amaze; 
They  might  have  chain'd  him,  as  before  that  stony 

form  he  stood, 
For  the   power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and 

from  his  lip  the  blood. 

"  Father !"  at  length  he  murmur'd  low,  and  wept 

like  childhood  then, — 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of 

warlike  men  ! 
He  thought  of  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his 

young  renown, 
He  flung  the  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the 

dust  sat  down. 

Then  covering  with  his   steel-gloved  hands  his 

darkly  mournful  brow, 
"No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "to  lift  the 

sword  for  now 


My  king  is  false,  my  hope  betray'd,  my  father — 

oh !  the  worth, 
The  glory,  and   the   loveliness,  are  pass'd  away 

from  earth ! 

"I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my 

sire  !  beside  thee  yet, 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's 

free  soil  had  met, — 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit  then, — for 

thee  my  fields  were  won, — 
And  thou  hast  perish'd  in  thy  chains,  as  though 

thou  hadst  no  son  !" 

Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he 
seized  the  monarch's  rein, 

Amidst  the  pale  and  wilder'd  looks  of  alt  the 
courtier  train ; 

And  with  a  fierce,  o'ermasteririg  grasp,  the  rear- 
ing war-horse  led, 

And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face, — the  king  be- 
fore the  dead ! — 

«  Came  I  not  forth  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's 

hand  to  kiss  1 — 
Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king !   and  tell 

me  what  is  this  ! 
The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought — gave 

answer,  where  are  they  '! — 
If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life 

through  this  cold  clay  ! 

« Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light, — be  still !  keep 
down  thine  ire, — 

Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak — this  earth 
is  not  my  sire  ! 

Give  me  back  him  for  whom  1  strove,  for  whom 
my  blood  was  shed, — 

Thou  canst  not — and  a  king] — His  dust  be  moun- 
tains on  thy  head !" 

He  loosed  the  steed ;  his  slack  hand  fell, — upon 

the  silent  face 
He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look — then  turn'd 

from  that  sad  place  : 
His  hope  was  crush'd,  his  after-fate   untold    in 

martial  strain, — 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the 

hills  of  Spain. 


ATTRACTION  OF  THE  EAST. 

WHAT  secret  current  of  man's  nature  turns 

Unto  the  golden  east  with  ceaseless  flow  ] 
Still,  where  the  sunbeam  at  its  fountain  burns, 

The  pilgrim  spirit  would  adore  and  glow; 
Raptinhigh  thoughts,  though  weary,  faint,  and  slow, 

Still  doth  the  traveller  through  the  deserts  wind, 
Led  by  those  old  Chaldean  stars,  which  know 

Where  pass'd  the  shepherd  fathers  of  mankind. 
Is  it  some  quenchless  instinct,  which  from  far 

Still  points  to  where  our  alienated  home 
Lay  in  bright  peace  ]     O  thou  true  eastern  star, 

Saviour  !  atoning  Lord  !  where'er  we  roam, 
Draw  still  our  hearts  to  thee ;  else,  else  how  vain 
Their  hope,  the  fair  lost  birthright  to  regain. 


294 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 

OH  !  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below ; 
Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  flow  : 
Few — and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky, 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns : 
It  may  be  that  the  breath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rapture  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring — 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times, — 

A  sorrowful  delight ! 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes, 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night ; 
The  wind  that,  with  so  many  a  tone, 

Some  chord  within  can  thrill,— 
These  may  have  language  all  thine  own, 

To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not  for  this,  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years ; 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew, 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears  ! 
If  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part,  . 
And  watch'd  through  sickness  by  thy  bed, — 

Callus  a  kindred  heart! 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made, 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend, 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend, 
For  that  full  bliss  of  thought  allied, 

Never  to  mortals  given, — 
Oli  !  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lift  them  unto  heaven. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  CHRIS- 
TIAN. 

Fon  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 
Thou  hast  made  thy  children  mighty 

By  the  touch  of  the  mountain  sod. 
Thou  hast  fix'd  our  ark  of  refuge 

Where  the  spoiler's  foot  ne'er  trod ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

We  are  watchers  of  a  beacon 

Whose  lights  must  never  die ; 
We  are  guardians  of  an  altar 

Midst  the  silence  of  the  sky ; 


The  rocks  yield  founts  of  courage, 

Struck  forth  as  by  thy  rod, — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

O  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

For  the  dark,  resounding  heavens, 

Where  thy  still  small  voice  is  heard, 
For  the  strong  pines  of  the  forests, 

That  by  thy  breath  are  stirr'd  ; 
For  the  storms  on  whose  free  pinions 

Thy  spirit  walks  abroad, — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

The  royal  eagle  darteth 

On  his  quarry  from  the  heights, 
And  the  stag  that  knows  no  master 

Seeks  there  his  wild  delights ; 
But  we  for  thy  communion 

Have  sought  the  mountain  sod, — 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

The  banner  of  the  chieftain 

Far,  far  below  us  waves; 
The  war-horse  of  the  spearman 

Can  not  reach  our  lofty  caves ; 
Thy  dark  clouds  wrap  the  threshold 

Of  freedom's  last  abode  ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

For  the  shadow  of  thy  presence 

Round  our  camp  of  rock  outspread  ; 
•For  the  stern  denies  of  battle, 

Bearing  record  of  our  dead  ; 
For  the  snows,  and  for  the  torrents, 

For  the  free  heart's  burial  sod, 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God.  our  fathers'  God  ! 


WASHINGTON'S  STATUE. 

YKS  !  rear  thy  guardian  hero's  form 
On  thy  proud  soil,  thou  Western  World ! 
A  watcher  through  each  sign  of  storm, 
O'er  freedom's  flag  unfurl'd. 

There,  as  before  a  shrine  to  bow, 
Bid  thy  true  sons  their  children  lead 
The  language  of  that  noble  brow 
For  all  things  good  shall  plead. 

The  spirit  rear'd  in  patriot  fight, 
The  virtue  born  of  home  and  hearth, 
There  calmly  throned,  a  holy  light 
Shall  pour  o'er  chaiuless  earth. 

And  let  that  work  of  England's  hand, 
Sent  through  the  blast  and  surge's  roar, 
So  girt  with  tranquil  glory,  stand 
For  ages  on  thy  shore ! 

Such  through  all  time  the  greetings  be, 
That  with  the  Atlantic  bilknv  sweeps  ! 
Telling  the  mighty  and  the  free 
Of  brothers  o'er  the  deep ! 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


295 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

AND  is  there  glory  from  the  heavens  departed  ? 

— Oh !  void  unmark'd ! — thy  sisters  of  the  sky 

Still  hold  their  place  on  high, 
Though  from  its  rank  thine  orb-so  long  hath  started, 

Thou,  that  no  more  art  seen  of  mortal  eye. 

Hath  the  night  lost  a  gem,  the  regal  night  1 
She  wears  her  crown  of  old  magnificence, 
Though  thou  art  exiled  thence — 

No  desert  seems  to  part  those  urns  of  light, 
Midst  the  far  depth  of  purple  gloom  intense. 

They  rise  in  joy,  the  starry  myriads  hurning — 
The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  mountains  free; 
And  from  the  silvery  sea 

To  them  the  sailor's  wakeful  eye  is  turning — 
Unchanged  they  rise,  they  have  not  mourn'd  for 
thee. 

Couldst  thou  be  shaken  from  thy  radiant  place, 
E'en  as  a  dew-drop  from  the  myrtle  spray, 
Swept  by  the  wind  away1? 

Wert  thou  not  peopled  by  some  glorious  race, 
And  was  there  power  to  smite  them  with  decay  7 

Why,  who  shall  talk  of  thrones,  of  sceptres  riven  ] 
Bow'd  be  our  hearts  to  think  of  what  we  are, 
When  from  its  height  afar 

A  world  sinks  thus — and  yon  majestic  heaven 
Shines  not  the  less  for  that  one  vanish'd  star ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION. 

OXE  draught,  kind  fairy  !  from  that  fountain  deep 
To  lay  the  phantoms  of  a  haunted  breast, 

And  lone  affections,  which  are  griefs,  to  steep 
In  the  cool  honey-dews  of  dreamless  rest ; 

And  from  the  soul  the  lightning-marks  to  lave — 
One  draught  of  that  sweet  wave! 

Yet,  mortal,  pause  ! — within  thy  mind  is  laid 
Wealth,  gaiher'd  long  and  slowly;  thoughts  di- 
vine 
Heap  that  full  treasure-house;  and  thou  hast  made 

The  gems  of  many  a  spirit's  ocean  thine; 
— Shall  the  dark  waters  to  oblivion  bear 
A  pyramid  so  fair  7 

Pour  from  the  fount !  and  let  the  draught  efface 
All  the  vain  lore  by  memory's  pride  amass'd, 

So  it  but  sweep  along  the  torrent's  trace, 
And  fill  the  hollow  channels  of  the  past; 

And  from  the  bosom's  inmost  folded  leaf 
Rase  the  one  master-grief! 

Yet  pause  once  more! — all,  all  thy  soul  hath  known, 
Loved,  felt,  rejoiced  in,  from  its  grasp  must  fade ! 

Is  there  no  voice  whose  kind  awakening  tone 
A  sense  of  sprints-time  in  thy  heart  hath  made! 

No  eye  whose  glance  thy  day-dreams  would  recall] 
Think — wouldst  thou  part  with  all? 


Fill  with  forgetfulness  ! — there  are,  there  are 
Voices  whose  music  I  have  loved  too  well ; 

Eyes  of  deep  gentleness — but  they  are  far — 
Never !  oh,  never  in  my  home  to  dwell ! 

Take  their  soft  looks  from  off  my  yearning  soul — 
Fill  high  the  oblivious  bowl ! 

Yet  pause  again  ! — with  memory  wilt  thou  cast 
The  undying  hope  away,  of  memory  born  ] 

Hope  of  re-union,  heart  to  heart  at  last, 

No  restless  doubt  between,  no  rankling  thorn? 

Wouldst  thou  erase  all  records  of  delight 

That  make  such  visions  bright] 

Fill  with  forgetfulness,  fill  high  ! — yet  stay — 

'T  is  from  the  past  we  shadow  forth  the  land 
Where  smiles,  long  lost,  again  shall  light  our  way, 
And  the  soul's  friends  be  wreath'd  in  one  bright 

band : — 

Pour  the  sweet  waters  back  on  their  own  rill — 
I  must  remember  still. 

For  their  sake,  for  the  dead — whose  image  nought 
May  dim  within  the  temple  of  my  l>reast — 

For  their  love's  sake,  which  now  no  earthly  thought 
May  shake  or  trouble  with  its  own  unrest, 

Though  the  past  haunt  me  like  a  spirit, — yet 
I  ask  not  to  forget. 


A  PARTING  SONG. 

WHEN  will  ye  think  of  me,  my  friends'? 

Wrhen  will  ye  think  of  me  ] 
When  the  last  red  light,  the  farewell  of  day, 
From  the  rock  and  the  river  is  passing  away, 
When  the  air  with  a  deepening  hush  is  fraught, 
And  the  heart  grows  burden'd  with  tender  thought — 
Then  let  it  be ! 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  kind  friends  ? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me1? — 
When  the  rose  of  the  rich  midsummer  time 
Is  fill'd  with  the  hues  of  its  glorious  prime ; 
When  ye  gather  its  bloom,  as  in  bright  hours  fled, 
From  the  walks  where  my  footsteps  no  more  may 

tread  ; 

Then  let  it  be ! 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  sweet  friends  ? 

When  will  you  think  of  me  ? — 
When  the  sudden  tears  o'erfiow  your  eye 
At  the  sound  of  some  olden  melody; 
When  ye  hear  the  voice  of  a  mountain  stream, 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of  a  poet's  dream; 
Then  let  it  be  ! 

Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you  friends  1 

Thus  ever  think  of  me  ! 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone ; 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound, 
As  of  a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found ; 
So  let  it  be. 


296 


FELICIA    HEMANS. 


THOUGHTS  DURING  SICKNESS. 

I. INTELLECTUAL    POWERS. 

O  THOUGHT  !  O  memory  !  gems  for  ever  heaping 
High  in  the  illumined  chambers  of  the  mind, 

And  thou,  divine  imagination !  keeping  [shrined; 
Thy  lamp's  lone  star  mid  shadowy  hosts  en- 
How  in  one  moment  rent  and  disentwined, 

At  fever's  fiery  touch  apart  they  fall, 

Your  glorious  combinations  ! — broken  all, 
As  the  sand-pillars  by  the  desert's  wind 

Scatter'd  to  whirling  dust ! — oh,  soon  uncrown'd  I 
Well  may  your  parting  swift,  your  strange  return, 

Subdue  the  soul  to  lowliness  profound, 
Guiding  its  chasten'd  vision  to  discern 

How  by  meek  faith  heaven's  portals  must  be  pass'd 

Ere  it  can  hold  your  gifts  inalienably  fast. 

II. SICKNESS    LIKE    NIGHT. 

THOU  art  like  night,  O  sickness !  deeply  stilling 

Within  my  heart  the  world's  disturbing  sound, 
And  the  dirn  quiet  of  my  chamber  filling 

With  low,  sweet  voices  by  life's  tumult  drown'd. 

Thou  art  like  awful  night ! — thou  gather'st  round 
The  things  that  are  unseen,  though  close  they  lie — 

And  with  a  truth,  clear,  startling,  and  profound, 
Givest  their  dread  presence  to  our  mental  eye. 
— Thou  art  like  starry,  spiritual  night ! 

High  and  immortal  thoughts  attend  thy  way, 
And  revelations,  which  the  common  light 

Brings  not,  though  wakening  with  its  rosy  ray 
All  outward  life: — Be  welcome  then  thy  rod, 
Before  whose  touch  my  soul  unfolds  itself  to  God. 

in. — RETZSCH'S  DESIGN,  THE  ANGEL  OF  DEATH. 
WELL  might  thine  awful  image  thus  arise 

With  that  high  calm  upon  thy  regal  brow, 
And  the  deep,  solemn  sweetness  in  those  eyes, 
Unto  the  glorious  artist ! — Who  but  thou 
The  fleeting  forms  of  beauty  can  endow 
For  him  with  permanency]  who  make  those  gleams 
Of  brighter  life,  that  colour  his  lone  dreams, 

Immortal  things  ? — Let  others  trembling  bow, 
Angel  of  death  !  before  thee. — Not  to  those, 
Whose  spirits  with  Eternal  Truth  repose, 
Art  thou  a  fearful  shape  ! — and  oh  !  for  me 

How  full  of  welcome  would  thine  aspect  shine, 
Did  not  the  cords  of  strong  affection  twine 
So  fast  around  my  soul,  it  cannot  spring  to  thee ! 

IV. REMEMBRANCE    OF    NATURE. 

O  NATURE  !   thou  didst  rear  ;ne  for  thine  own 
With  thy  free  singing-birds  and  mountain  brooks ; 
Feeding  my  thoughts  in  primrose-haunted  nooks, 

With  fairy  fantasies,  and  wood-dreams  lone ; 

And  thou  didst  teach  me  every  wandering  tone 
Drawnfrom  thy  many-whisperingtreesand  waves, 
And  guide  my  steps  to  founts  and  sparry  caves, 

And  where  bright  mosses  wove  thee  a  rich  throne 
Midst  the  green  hills:  and  now,  that,  far  estranged 

From  all  sweet  sounds  and  odours  of  thy  breath, 
Fading  I  lie,  within  my  heart  unchanged, 

So  glows  the  love  of  thee,  that  nut  far  death, 

Seems  that  pure  passion's  fervour — but  ordain'd 

To  meet  on  brighter  shores  thy  majesty  unstain'd. 


V. FLIGHT    OF    THE    SPIRIT. 

WHITHER,  oh  !  whither  wilt  thou  wing  thy  way  1 
What  solemn  region  first  upon  thy  sight 
Shall  break,  unveil'd  for  terror  or  delight  ? 
What  hosts,  magnificent  in  dread  array"? 
My  spirit,  when  thy  prison-house  of  clay, 

After  long  strife  is  rent? — fond,  fruitless  guest! 
The  unfledged  bird,  within  his  narrow  nest 
Sees  but  a  few  green  branches  o'er  him  play, 
And  through  their  parting  leaves,  by  fits  reveal'd, 
A  glimpse  of  summer  sky: — nor  knows  the  field 

Wherein  his  dormant  powers  must  yet  be  tried. 
Thou  art  that  bird  ! — of  what  beyond  thee  lies 
Far  in  the  untrack'd,  immeasurable  skies,    [Guide  ! 
Knowing  but  this — that  thou   shalt  find   thy    j 

VI. FLOWERS. 

WELCOME,  O  pure  and  lovely  forms,  again 
Unto  the  shadowy  stillness  of  my  room ; 

For  not  alone  ye  bring  a  joyous  tram 

Of  summer-thoughts  attendant  on  your  bloom, 

Visions  of  freshness,  of  rich  bowery  gloom, 
Of  the  low  murmurs  filling  mossy  dells, 
Of  stars  that  look  down  on  your  folded  bells 

Through  dewy  leaves,  of  many  a  wild  perfume, 
Greeting  the  wanderer  of  the  hill  and  grove 

Like  sudden  music ;  more  than  this  ye  bring — 
Far  more  ;  ye  whisper  of  the  all-fostering  love 

Which  thus  hath  clothed  you,  and  whose  dove-like 

Broods  o'erthesuffererdrawingfever'd  breath,  [wing 

Whether  the  couch  be  that  of  life  or  death. 

VII. RECOVERY. 

BACK,  then,  once  more  to  breast  the  waves  of  life, 

To  battle  on  against  the  unceasing  spvay, 
To  sink  o'erwearied  in  the  stormy  strife, 
And  rise  to  strife  again ;  yet  on  my  way 
O,  linger  still,  thou  light  of  better  day  ! 
Born  in  the  hours  of  loneliness,  arid  you, 
Ye  childlike  thoughts,  the  holy  and  the  true; 
Ye  that  came  bearing,  while  subdued  I  lay, 
The  faith,  the  insight  of  life's  vernal  morn 
Back  on  my  soul,  a  clear,  bright  sense,  new-born, 
Now  leave  me  not !  but  as,  profoundly  pure, 
A  blue  stream  rushes  through  a  darker  lake 
Unchanged,  e'en  thus  with  me  your  journey  take, 
Wafting  sweet  airs  of  heaven  through  this  low 
world  obscure. 

TO  A  FAMILY  BIBLE. 

WnAThousehold  though  tsaroundtheeastheirshrine 

Cling  reverently  ! — of  anxious  looks  beguiled, 
My  mother's  eyes  upon  thy  page  divine 

Each  day  were  bent;  her  accents  gravely  mild, 
Breathed  out  thy  lore:  whilst  I.  a  dreamy  child, 
W'ander'd  on  breeze-like  fancies  oft  away, 

To  some  lone  tuft  of  gleaming  spring-flowers  wild, 
Some  fresh-discover'd  nook  for  woodland  play, 
Some  secret  nest : — yet  would  the  solemn  Word 
At  times,  with  kindlings  of  young  wonder  heard, 

Fall  on  my  wakcn'd  spirit,  there  to  be 
A  seed  not  lost;  for  which,  in  darker  years, 
O  Book  of  Heaven  !   I  pour,  with  grateful  tears, 
Heart  blessings  on  the  holy  dead  and  thee  ! 


SERJEANT    TALFOURD. 


THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD  is  a  native  of 
Reading,  and  was  born  about  the  year  1796. 
He  was  educated  at  a  grammar  school  under 
Dr.  VALPY,  and  in  1811,  while  yet  a  student 
in  the  classics,*he  published  his  first  volume 
of  poems.  One  of  these  early  compositions  is 
"On  the  Brotherhood  of  Mankind,"  and  another 
on  "The  Education  of  the  Poor."  They  won 
for  him  the  acquaintance  and  friendship  of 
Lord  BROUGHAM,  who  advised  him  to  work 
his  way  through  literature  to  the  bar.  He 
studied  his  profession  under  Mr.  CHITTY, 
whom  he  assisted  in  his  great  work  on  the 
Criminal,  Laws. 

His  earlier  essays  as  an  author  were  seve- 
ral pamphlets  on  religion  and  politics,  and,  in 
1815,  "An  Attempt  to  Estimate  the  Poetical 
Talent  of  the  Present  Age." 

He  was  called  to  the  bar  by  the  society  of 
the  Middle  Temple  in  1821,  and  in  1834  he 
was  elected  to  Parliament,  from  his  native 
town,  by  a  large  majority  of  all  parties.  He 
was  returned  again  in  1839,  but  declined  being 
a  candidate  in  1841. 

Previous  to  the  publication  of  his  great  dra- 
matic poem,  he  was  only  known  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic  as  the  author  of  various  criti- 
cal articles  in  the  "New  Monthly  Magazine," 
the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  the  "  Encyclope- 
dia Metropolitana,"  arid  the  "  Retrospective 
Review,"  written  with  much  grace  of  style, 
and  abounding  in  metaphor  and  illustration. 
He  was  the  fiiend  of  LAMB,  HAZLITT,  HUNT, 
and  the  other  members  of  the  literary  coterie 
of  which  they  formed  a  part,  and  has  repeat- 
edly borne  testimony  to  their  genius  and  cha- 
racter, even  at  those  periods  when  to  praise 
some  of  them  was  to  participate  in  their  un- 
popularity. Of  all  the  authors  of  the  present 
age,  however,  he  seems  to  have  the  most 
veneration  for  WORDSWORTH.  He  has  poured 
forth  the  full  wealth  of  his  own  mind  in  illus- 
trating the  poetry  and  poetical  character  of  his 
idol.  The  publication  of  "Ion"  gave  him  an 
immediate  reputation  both  in  Great  Britain 
and  in  this  country, — a  reputation  which  pro- 
mises to  be  lasting.  The  two  tragedies  he 
has  since  produced,  "The  Athenian  Captive," 
and  "Glencoe,"  though  of  much  merit,  have 


been  overshadowed  by  the  fame  of  his  first 
effort. 

TALFOURD  has  earned  the  gratitude  of  men 
of  letters  by  his  celebrated  defence  of  MOXON, 
who  was  prosecuted  as  the  publisher  of  SHEL- 
LEY, and  for  his  advocacy  of  the  rights  of  au- 
thors, in  various  speeches  in  the  House  of 
Commons  on  the  copyright  question.  His 
writings,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  bear  the 
marks  of  patient  meditation  and  careful  cor- 
rection. They  display  a  fine  temper,  large 
attainments,  an  affluent  imagination,  and  great 
richness  and  fulness  of  diction.  Few  works 
of  the  age  are  characterized  by  such  purity 
of  thought,  or  display  a  deeper  love  and  reve- 
rence for  beauty  and  goodness.  The  mildness 
of  his  disposition,  his  tenderness  of  feeling 
and  sentiment,  the  calm,  brooding  spirit  dif- 
fused over  his  compositions,  and  his  tendency 
to  overload  his  diction  with  glittering  words 
and  images,  have  subjected  him,  at  times,  to 
the  charge  of  effeminacy  and  euphaism ;  but 
there  is  no  lack  of  true  power  discernible  in 
him,  if  we  pass  behind  the  profuse  ornaments 
of  his  style,  to  the  thought  and  emotion  they 
are  intended  to  decorate. 

No  recent  age  has  produced  in  England 
more  fine  dramatic  poetry  than  the  present. 
Of  the  acted  dramatists,  TALFOURD,  BULWER, 
and  KNOWLES  have  been  most  successful.  It 
is  wonderful,  considering  the  condition  of  the 
stage,  that  the  faultless,  classical  poetry  of 
"  Ion"  was  received  with  such  applause. 
BROWNING,  author  of  "  Paracelsus"  and 
"  Strafford,"  MARSTON,  author  of  the  "  Patri- 
cian's Daughter,"  and  others,  have  written 
pieces  full  of  passionate  and  imaginative 
poetry,  but  failed  of  audience,  except  in 
the  closet,  and  after  a  few  efforts,  unsuc- 
cessful with  the  managers,  have  abandoned 
the  dramatic  for  the  epic  or  lyric  forms  of 
composition. 

A  collection  of  TALFOURD'S  "Critical  and 
Miscellaneous  Writings,"  comprising  all  his 
more  important  contributions  to  the  literary 
magazines,  was  published  by  Carey  and  Hart 
in  1843,  and  about  the  same  time  Moxon 
brought  out  in  London  a  complete  edition  of 

his  tragedies  and  minor  poems. 

297 


298 


SERGEANT    TALFOURD. 


VERSES 

TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    A     CHILD    NAMED    AFTER 
CHARLES    LAMB. 

OUR  gentle  Charles  has  pass'd  away, 
From  earth's  short  bondage  free, 

And  left  to  us  its  leaden  day 
And  mist-enshrouded  sea. 

Here,  by  the  restless  ocean's  side, 
Sweet  hours  of  hope  have  flown, 

When  first  the  triumph  of  its  tide 
Seem'd  omen  of  our  own. 

That  eager  joy  the  sea-breeze  gave, 

When  first  it  raised  his  hair, 
S.unk  with  each  day's  retiring  wave, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  prayer. 

The  sun-blink  that  through  dazzling  mist, 

To  flickering  hope  akin, 
Far  waves  with  feeble  fondness  kiss'd, 

No  smile  as  faint  can  win ; 

Yet  not  in  vain  with  radiance  weak 
The  heavenly  stranger  gleams — 

Not  of  the  world  it  lights  to  speak, 
But  that  from  whence  it  streams. 

That  world  our  patient  sufferer  sought, 

Serene  with  pitying  eyes, 
As  if  his  mounting  spirit  caught 

The  wisdom  of  the  skies. 

With  boundless  love  it  look'd  abroad 
For  one  bright  moment  given, 

Shone  with  a  loveliness  that  awed, 
And  quiver'd  into  heaven. 

A  year  made  slow  by  care  and  toil 

Has  paced  its  weary  round, 
Since  death's  enrich'd  with  kindred  spoil 

The  snow-clad,  frost-ribb'd  ground. 

Then  Lamb,  with  whose  endearing  name 

Our  boy  we  proudly  graced, 
Shrank  from  the  warmth  of  sweeter  fame 

Than  ever  bard  embraced. 

Still  't  was  a  mournful  joy  to  think 

Our  darling  might  supply 
For  years  on  earth,  a  living  link 

To  name  that  cannot  die. 

And  though  such  fancy  gleam  no  more 

On  earthly  sorrow's  night, 
Truth's  nobler  torch  unveils  the  shore 

Where  lends  to  both  its  light. 

The  nurseling  there  that  hand  may  take 

None  ever  grasp'd  in  vain, 
And  smiles  of  well-known  sweetness  wake, 

Without  their  tinge  of  pain. 

Though  'twixt  the  child  and  childlike  bard 

Late  seem'd  distinction  wide, 
They  now  may  trace,  in  Heaven's  regard, 

How  near  they  were  allied. 


Within  the  infant's  ample  brow 

Blythe  fancies  lay  unfurl'd, 
Which,  all  uncrush'd,  may  open  now 

To  charm  a  sinless  world. 

Though  the  soft  spirit  of  those  eyes 
Might  ne'er  with  Lamb's  compete — 

Ne'er  sparkle  with  a  wit  as  wise, 
Or  melt  in  tears  as  sweet, 

That  calm  and  unforgotten  look 

A  kindred  love  reveals 
With  his  who  never  friend  forsook 

Or  hurt  a  thing  that  feels. 

In  thought  profound,  in  wildest  glee, 
In  sorrow's  lengthening  range, 

His  guileless  soul  of  infancy 
Endured  no  spot  or  change. 

From  traits  of  each  our  love  receives 

For  comfort  nobler  scope ; 
While  light  which  childlike  genius  leaves 

Confirms  the  infant's  hope : 

And  in  that  hope  with  sweetness  fraught 

Be  aching  hearts  beguiled, 
To  blend  in  one  delightful  thought 

The  poet  and  the  child. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  NEEDLES  HOTEL,  ALUM  BAY,   ISLE 
OF  WIGHT,  AFTER  A  WEEK  SPENT  AT  THAT  PLACE. 

How  simple  in  their  grandeur  are  the  forms 
That  constitute  this  picture  !     Nature  grants 
Scarce  more  than  sternest  cynic  might  desire — 
Earth,  sea,  and  sky,  and  hardly  lends  to  each 
Variety  of  colour  ;  yet  the  soul 
Asks  nothing  fairer  than  the  scene  it  grasps 
And  makes  its  own  for  ever !     From  the  gate 
Of  this  home-featured  inn,  which  nestling  cleaves 
To  its  own  shelf  among  the  downs,  begirt 
With  trees  which  lift  no  branches  to  defy 
The  fury  of  the  storm,  but  crouch  in  love      [ceive 
Round  the  low  snow-white  walls  whence  they  re- 
More  shelter  than  they  lend — the  heart-soothed  guest 
Views  a  furze-dotted  common,  on  each  side 
Wreath'd  into  waving  eminences,  clothed 
Above  the  furze  with  scanty  green,  in  front 
Indented  sharply  to  admit  the  sea, 
Spread  thence  in  softest  blue — to  which  a  gorge, 
Sinking  within  the  valley's  deepening  green, 
Invites  by  grassy  path ;  the  eastern  down, 
Swelling  with  pride  into  the  waters,  shows 
Its  sward-tipp'd  precipice  of  radiant  white, 
And  claims  the  dazzling  peak  beneath  its  brow 
Part  of  its  ancient  bulk,  which  hints  the  strength 
Of  those  famed  pinnacles  that  still  withstand 
The  conquering  waves,  ns  fortresses  maintain'd 
By  death-devoted  troops,  hold  out  awhile 
After  the  game  of  war  is  lost,  to  prove 
The  virtue  of  the  conquer'd. — Here  are  scarce 
Four  colours  for  the  painter;  yet  the  charm 
Which  permanence,  mid  worldly  change,  confers 


SERGEANT    TALFOURD. 


299 


Is  felt,  if  ever,  here  ;  for  he  who  loves 

To  bid  this  scene  refresh  his  inward  eye 

When  far  away,  may  feel  it  keeping  still 

The  very  aspect  that  it  wore  for  him, 

Sure  changed  by  time  or  season :  autumn  finds 

Scant  boughs  on  which  the  lustre  of  decay 

May  tremble  fondly ;  storms  may  rage  in  vain 

Above  the  clumps  of  sturdy  furze,  which  stand 

The  forest  of  the  fairies  ;  twilight  gray 

Finds  in  the  landscape's  stern  and  simple  forms 

Naught  to  conceal ;  the  moon,  although  she  cast 

Upon  the  element,  she  sways  a  track 

Like  that  which  slanted  through  young  Jacob's  sleep 

From  heaven  to  earth,  and  flutter'd  at  the  soul 

Of  shadow's  mighty  painter,  who  thence  drew 

Hints  of  a  glory  beyond  shape,  reveals 

The  clear-cut  framework  of  the  sea  and  downs 

Shelving  to  gloom,  as  unperplex'd  with  threads 

Of  pallid  light,  as  when  the  summer's  noon 

Bathes  them  in  sunshine ;  and  the  giant  cliffs 

Scarce  veiling  more  their  lines  of  flint,  that  run 

Likeveins  of  moveless  blue,  through  their  bleak  sides, 

In  moonlight  than  in  day,  shall  tower  as  now 

(Save  when  some  moss's  slender  stain  shall  break 

Into  the  samphire's  yellow  in  mid  air, 

To  tempt  some  trembling  life)  until  the  eyes 

Which  gaze  in  childhood  on  them  shall  be  dim. 

Yet  deem  not  that  these  sober  forms  are  all 
That  Nature  here  provides,  although  she  frames 
These  in  one  lasting  picture  for  the  heart. 
Within  the  foldings  of  the  coast  she  breathes 
-Hues  of  fantastic  beauty.     Thread  the  gorge 
And,  turning  on  the  beach,  while  the  low  sea 
Spread  out  in  mirror'd  gentleness,  allows 
A  path  along  the  curving  edge,  behold 
Such  dazzling  glory  of  prismatic  tints 
Flung  o'er  the  lofty  crescent,  as  assures 
The  orient  gardens  where  Aladdin  pluck'd 
Jewels  for  fruit  no  fable — as  if  earth, 
Provoked  to  emulate  the  rainbow's  gauds 
In  lasting  mould,  had  snatch'd  its  floating  hues 
And  fix'd  them  here ;  for  never  o'er  the  bay 
Flew  a  celestial  arch  of  brighter  grace 
Than  the  gay  coast  exhibits ;  here  the  cliff 
Flaunts  in  a  brighter  yellow  than  the  stream 
Of  Tiber  wafted  ;  then  with  softer  shades 
Declines  to  pearly  white,  which  blushes  soon 
With  pink  as  delicate  as  autumn's  rose 
Wears  on  its  scattering  leaves ;  anon  the  shore 
Recedes  into  a  fane-like  dell,  where  stain'd 
With  black,  as  if  with  sable  tapestry  hung, 
Light  pinacles  rise  taper :  further  yet 
Swells  out  in  solemn  mass  a  dusky  veil 
Of  purpled  crimson, — while  bright  streaks  of  red 
Start  out  in  gleam-like  tint,  to  tell  of  veins 
Which  the  slow-winning  sea,  in  distant  times, 
Shall  bare  to  unborn  gazers. 

If  this  scene 

Grow  too  fantastic  for  thy  pensive  thought, 
Climb  either  swelling  down,  and  gaze  with  joy 
On  the  blue  ocean,  pour'd  around  the  heights, 
As  it  embraced  the  wonders  of  that  shield 
Which  the  vow'd  friend  of  slain  Patroclus  wore, 
To  grace  his  fated  valour ;  nor  disdain 
The  quiet  of  the  vale,  though  not  endow'd 


With  such  luxurious  beauty  as  the  coast 
Of  Undercliff  embosoms  ; — mid  those  lines 
Of  scanty  foliage,  thoughtful  lanes  and  paths, 
And  cottage  roofs  find  shelter;  the  blue  stream, 
That  with  its  brief  vein  almost  threads  the  isle, 
Flows  blest  with  two  gray  towers,  beneath  whose 
The  village  life  sleeps  trustfully,  whose  rites  [shade 
Touch  the  old  weather -harden'd  fisher's  heart 
With  child-like  softness,  and  shall  teach  the  boy 
Who  kneels,  a  sturdy  grandson,  at  his  side, 
When  his  frail  boat  amidst  the  breakers  parts 
To  cast  the  anchor  of  a  Christian  hope 
In  an  un rippled  haven.     Then  rejoice, 
That  in  remotest  point  of  this  sweet  isle, 
Which  with  fond  mimicry  combines  each 
Of  the  great  land  that,  by  the  ancient  bond 
(Sea-parted  once,  and  sea-united  now) 
Binds  her  in  unity — a  spirit  breaths 
On  cliff,  and  tower,  and  valley,  by  the  side 
Of  cottage-fire,  and  the  low  grass-grown  grave, 
Of  home  on  English  earth,  and  home  in  heaven ! 


KINDNESS. 

THE  blessings  which  the  weak  and  poor  can  scatter 
Have  their  own  season.     'Tis  a  little  thing 
To  give  a  cup  of  water ;  yet  its  draught 
Of  cool  refreshment,  drain'd  by  fever'd  lips, 
May  give  a  shock  of  pleasure  to  the  frame 
More  exquisite  than  when  nectarean  juice 
Renews  the  life  of  joy  in  happiest  hours. 
It  is  a  little  thing  to  speak  a  phrase 
Of  common  comfort  which  by  daily  use 
Has  almost  lost  its  sense ;  yet  on  the  ear 
Of  him  who  thought  to  die  unmourn'd  'twill  fall 
Like  choicest  music ;  fill  the  glazing  eye 
With  gentle  tears;  relax  the  knotted  hand 
To  know  the  bonds  of  fellowship  again  ; 
And  shed  on  the  departing  soul  a  sense 
More  precious  than  the  benison  of  friends 
About  the  honour'd  death-bed  of  the  rich, 
To  him  who  else  were  lonely,  that  another 
Of  the  great  family  is  near  and  feels. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  POETS. 

THE  fame  of  those  pure  bards  whose  faces  lie 
Like  glorious  clouds  in  summer's  calmest  even, 
Fringing  the  western  skirts  of  darkening  heaven, 
And  sprinkled  o'er  with  hues  of  rainbow  dye, 
Awakes  no  voice  of  thunder,  which  may  vie 
With  mighty  chiefs'  renown ; — from  ages  gone, 
In  low,  undying  strain,  it  lengthens  on, 
Earth's  greenest  solitudes  with  joy  to  fill, — 
Felt  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  sky, 
Or  trembling  in  the  gush  of  new-born  rill, 

Or  whispering  o'er  the  lake's  undimpled  breast ; 
Yet  blest  to  live  when  trumpet-notes  are  still, 
To  wake  a  pulse  of  earth-born  ecstasy 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  eternal  rest. 


300 


SERGEANT    TALFOURD. 


ION  DESCRIBED  BY  AGENOR. 

lox,  our  sometime  darling,  whom  we  prized 
As  a  stray  gift,  by  bounteous  Heaven  dismissed 
Fromsome  bright  sphere  which  sorrowmay  not  cloud 
To  make  the  happy  happier !  Is  he  sent 
To  grapple  with  the  miseries  of  this  time, 
Whose  nature  such  ethereal  aspect  wears 
As  it  would  perish  at  the  touch  of  wrong? 
By  no  internal  contest  is  he  train'd 
For  such  hard  duty  ;  no  emotions  rude 
Hath  his  clear  spirit  vanquish'd ;    Love,  the  germ 
Of  his  mild  nature,  hath  spread  graces  forth, 
Expanding  with  its  progress,  as  the  store 
Of  rainbow  colour  which  the  seed  conceals 
Sheds  out  its  tints  from  his  dim  treasury, 
To  flush  and  circle  in  the  flower.     No  tear 
Hath  fill'd  his  eye  save  that  of  thoughtful  joy, 
When,  in  the  evening  stillness,  lovely  things 
Press'd  on  his  soul  too  busily ;  his  voice, 
If,  in  the  earnestness  of  childish  sports, 
Raised  to  the  tone  of  anger,  check'd  its  force, 
As  if  it  fear'd  to  break  its  being's  law, 
And  falter'd  into  music ;  when  the  forms 
Of  guilty  passion  have  been  made  to  live 
In  pictured  speech,  and  others  have  wax'd  loud 
In  righteous  indignation,  he  hath  heard 
With  sceptic  smile,  or  from  some  slender  vein 
Of  goodness,  which  surrounding  gloom  conceal  d, 
Struck  sunlight  o'er  it ;  so  his  life  hath  flow'd 
From  its  mysterious  urn  a  sacred  stream, 
In  whose  calm  depth  the  beautiful  and  pure 
.Alone  are  mirror'd;  which,  though  shapes  of  ill 
May  hover  round  its  surface,  glides  in  light, 
And  takes  no  shadow  from  them. 


ION  RECEIVING  THE  SACRIFICIAL 
KNIFE  FROM  CTESIPHON. 

YE  eldest  gods, 

Who  in  no  statues  of  exactest  form 
A  re  palpable ;  who  shun  the  azure  heights 
Of  beautiful  Olympus,  and  the  sound 
Of  ever-young  Apollo's  minstrelsy  ; 
Yet,  mindful  of  the  empire  which  ye  held 
Over  dim  Chaos,  keep  revengeful  wrath 
On  falling  nations,  and  on  kingly  lines 
About  to  sink  for  ever :  ye,  who  shed 
Into  the  passions  of  earth's  giant  brood 
And  their  fierce  usages  the  sense  of  justice; 
Who  clothe  the  fated  battlements  of  tyranny 
With  blackness  as  a  funeral  pall,  and  breathe 
Through  the  proud  halls  of  time-embolden'd  guilt 
Portents  of  ruin,  hear  me  ! — In  your  presence, 
For  now  I  feel  ye  nigh,  I  dedicate 
This  arm  to  the  destruction  of  the  king 
A  nd  of  his  race  ;  O  keep  me  pitiless  : 
Expel  all  human  weakness  from  my  frame, 
That  this  keen  weapon  shake  not  when  his  heart 
Should  feel  its  point ;  and  if  he  has  a  child 
Whose  blood  is  needful  to  the  sacrifice 
My  country  asks,  harden  my  soul  to  shed  it ! — 
Was  not  that  thunder  ! 


ION  AT  THE  ENTRANCE  OF  A 
FOREST. 

O  WINDING  pathways,  o'er  whose  scanty  blades 
Of  unaspiring  grass  mine  eyes  have  bent 
So  often  when  by  musing  fancy  sway'd, 
That  craved  alliance  with  no  wider  scene 
Than  your  fair  thickets  border'd,  but  was  pleased 
To  deem  the  toilsome  years  of  manhood  flown, 
And,  on  the  pictured  mellowness  of  age 
Idly  reflective,  image  my  return 
From  careful  wanderings,  to  find  ye  gleam 
With  unchanged  aspect  on  a  heart  unchanged, 
And  rnelt  the  busy  past  to  a  sweet  dream 
As  then  the  future  was ; — why  should  ye  now 
Echo  my  steps  with  melancholy  sound 
As  ye  were  conscious  of  a  guilty  presence  1 
The  lovely  light  of  eve,  that,  as  it  waned, 
Touch'd  ye  with  softer,  homelier  look,  now  fades 
In  dismal  blackness ; — and  yon  twisted  roots 
Of  ancient  trees,  with  whose  fantastic  forms 
My  thoughts  grew  humorous,  look  terrible, 
As  if  about  to  start  to  serpent  life, 
And  hiss  around  me; — whither  shall  I  turn? — 
Where  fly? — I  see  the  myrtle-cradled  spot 
Where  human  love,  instructed  by  divine, 
Found  and  embraced  me  first ;  I'll  cast  me  down 
Upon  that  earth  as  on  a  mother's  breast, 
In  hope  to  feel  myself  again  a  child. 


FAME. 

THE  names  that  slow  oblivion  have  defied, 
And  passionate  ambition's  wildest  shocks 
Stand  in  lone  grandeur,  like  eternal  rocks, 

To  cast  broad  shadows  o'er  the  silent  tide 

Of  time's  unebbing  flood,  whose  waters  glide 
To  ponderous  darkness  from  their  secret  spring, 
And,  bearing  on  each  transitory  thing, 

Leave  those  old  monuments  in  loneliest  pride. 
There  stand  they — fortresses  uprear'd  by  man, 

Whose  earthly  frame  is  mortal;  symbols  high 

Of  power  unchanging, — thought  that  cannot  die ; 
Proofs  that  our  nature  is  not  of  a  span, 

But  of  immortal  essence,  and  allied 

To  life  and  joy  and  love  unperishing. 


TO  THE  THAMES  AT  WESTMINSTER. 

WITH  no  cold  admiration  do  I  gaze 
Upon  thy  pomp  of  waters,  matchless  stream  ! 
But  home-sick  fancy  kindles  with  the  beam 

That  on  thy  lucid  bosom  faintly  plays, 

And  glides  delighted  through  thy  crystal  ways, 
Till  on  her  eye  those  wave-fed  poplars  gleam, 

Beneath  whose  shade  her  first  ethereal  maze 
She  fashion'd  ;  where  she  traced  in  clearest  dream 

Thy  mirror-'d  course  of  wood-enshrined  repose 
Besprent  with  island  haunts  of  spirits  bright; 

And  widening  on — till,  at  the  vision's  close, 
Great  London,  only  then  a  name  of  might 

For  childish  thought  to  build  on,  proudly  rose 
A  rock-throned  city  clad  in  heavenly  light. 


JOHN    KEATS. 


JOHN  KEATS  was  born  on  the  twenty-ninth 
of  October,  1796,  in  the  Moorfields,  London, 
where  his  father  and  grandfather  kept  a  livery- 
stable.  His  birth  is  said  to  have  been  pre- 
mature; he  was  a  feeble  and  sickly  child; 
and  whatever  had  been  the  cast  of  his  life,  it 
would  probably  have  been  of  brief  duration. 
He  received  the  rudiments  of  a  classical  educa- 
tion at  Enfield,  and  on  leaving  school  was 
apprenticed  to  a  surgeon  at  Edmonton;  but 
coming  into  possession  of  a  small  patrimony, 
he  abandoned  the  study  of  a  profession,  and 
determined  to  devote  his  time  to  poetry.  Mr. 
CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE,  editor  of  "The 
Riches  of  Chaucer,"  introduced  him  to  LEIGH 
HUNT,  then  proprietor  of  the  "Examiner,"  in 
which  appeared  the  first  poems  he  ever  publish- 
ed. "  I  shall  never  forget,"  writes  Mr.  HUNT, 
"  the  impression  made  upon  me  by  the  exube- 
rant specimens  of  genuine,  though  young,  poe- 
try, which  were  laid  before  me,  the  promise 
of  which  was  seconded  by  the  fine,  fervid  coun- 
tenance of  the  writer."  They  soon  became 
very  intimate.  "We  read  and  walked  to- 
gether," says  HUNT,  "  and  used  to  write  verses 
of  an  evening  upon  a  given  subject;  no  ima- 
ginative pleasure  was  left  unnoticed  by  us,  or 
unenjoyed  ;  from  the  recollection  of  the  bards 
and  patriots  of  old,  to  the  luxury  of  a  summer 
rain  at  our  window,  or  the  clicking  of  the  coal 
in  winter-time."  At  this  time  KEATS  was 
twenty-one  ;  in  the  next  year,  1817,  appeared 
his  first  volume  of  poetry,  and  in  the  follow- 
ing spring,  "  Endymion."  They  were  badly 
received  by  the  critics.  Every  one,  we  sup- 
pose, has  heard  of  the  bitter  review  attributed 
to  GIFFORD,  in  the  Quarterly,  which,  with 
some  show  of  reason,  was  said  to  have  caused 
the  poet's  death.  It  was  in  the  common  vein 
of  those  critics  who,  misapprehending  the  na- 
ture of  their  vocation,  read  only  to  discover 
faults.  The  poems,  with  great  and  singular 
beauties,  had,  indeed,  their  blemishes,  such  as 
are  common  to  young  authors.  They  were 
diffuse,  and  abounded  in  strange  words,  and 
unallowable  rhymes ;  but  they  contained  no- 
ble passages,  such  as  were  never  written  by 


j  any  other  author  of  so  immature  an  age.     It  is 
best,   generally,   to   point   out    with    honest 
j  frankness  a  young  writer's  faults ;  too  much 
i  censure  is  better  than  over-praise ;  but  KEATS 
j  was  morbidly  sensitive,  quite  unfit  to  bear  the 
unsparing  ridicule  and  invective  with  which 
his  works  were  greeted,  embittering  the  resi- 
due of  his  brief  life,  if  they  did  not  cause  his 
death. 

After  the  publication  of  "  Endymion," 
I  KEATS  made  excursions  into  Scotland,  and  to 
the  south  of  England  and  the  Isle  of  Wight. 
During  a  severe  illness  which  followed,  he 
was  watched  over  with  tender  solicitude  by 
his  friends  Mr.  CHARLES  BROWN  vaud  LEIGH 
HUNT.  Though  depressed,  he  was  not  dis- 
heartened, and  he  wrote  in  two  years  his 
"  Lamia,"  "  Isabella,"  "  Eve  of  St.  Agnes," 
"  Hyperion,"  and  some  minor  poems,  which 
were  printed  in  1820.  "  He  sent  them  out," 
says  SHELLEY,  with  "a  careless  despair," 
without  confidence  or  fear.  But  the  world 
was  now  prepared  to  render  a  different  verdict 
upon  his  works.  "  Hyperion,"  wrote  BYRON, 
"seems  inspired  by  the  Titans,  and  is  as  sub- 
lime as  ^Eschylus."  Praise  was  not  yet 
universal,  but  it  came  from  the  high-priests  of 
genius. 

In  October  of  this  year,  KEATS  left  England, 
never  to  return.  He  sailed  for  Naples,  whence 
he  soon  went  to  Rome.  He  lingered  there,  in 
gradual  decline,  until  the  year  was  nearly 
closed,  gentle,  and  patient,  and  grateful  for 
every  kindness.  He  knew  that  he  was  dying. 
"  I  feel  the  daisies  growing  over  me,"  he  said 
one  day,  and  at  another  time  he  requested  that 
if  any  epitaph  were  put  above  him,  it  should 
be,  "  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  wa- 
ter." He  died  on  the  twenty-seventh  of 
December,  1820,  and  was  buried  close  by  the 
pyramid  of  Cestus,  in  the  cemetery  of  the 
English  Protestants,  at  Rome  ;  "  a  place  so 
beautiful,"  says  SHELLEY,  "  thai  it  might  al- 
most make  one  in  love  with  death." 

"  He  was  under  the  middle  height ;"  says 
LEIGH    HUNT,   "and  his  lower    limbs  were 
small  in  comparison  with  the  upper,  but  neat 
2C  301 


302 


JOHN    KEATS. 


and  well-turned.  His  shoulders  were  very  broad 
for  his  size ;  he  had  a  face  in  which  energy  and 
sensibility  were  remarkably  mixed  up — an 
eager  power,  checked  and  made  patient  by  ill- 
health.  Every  feature  was  at  once  strongly  cut 
and  delicately  alive.  If  there  was  any  faulty 
expression,  it  was  in  the  mouth,  which  was  not 
without  something  of  a  character  of  pugnacity. 
The  face  was  rather  long  than  otherwise ;  the 
upper  lip  projected  a  little  over  the  under;  the 
chin  was  bold,  the  cheeks  sunken;  the  eyes 
mellow  and  glowing — large,  dark,  and  sensi- 
tive. At  the  recital  of  a  noble  action,  or  a 
beautiful  thought,  they  would  suffuse  with 
tears,  and  his  mouth  trembled.  In  this,  there 
was  ill-health  as  well  as  imagination,  for  he 
did  not  like  these  betrayals  of  emotion  :  and 
he  had  great  personal,  as  well  as  moral  cou- 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 

ST.  AGNT.S*EVE — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he 
saith. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meager,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze, 
Imprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by  ;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung  ; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve  : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise 
on  their  breasts. 


rage.     His  hair,  of  a  brown  colour,  was  fine, 
and  hung  in  natural  ringlets." 

KEATS  was  the  greatest  of  all  poets  who 
have  died  so  young.  His  imagination,  which 
he  most  delighted  to  indulge  through  the  me- 
dium of  mythological  fable,  was  affluent  and 
warm.  Some  of  his  pictures  of  this  kind  are 
rich  beyond  any  similar  productions  in  our 
language.  They  have  a  voluptuous  glow, 
that  prove  a  keen  and  passionate  sense  of  the 
beautiful.  The  loose  versification  of  many  of 
his  works  has  induced  belief  that  he  lacked 
energy  proportionate  to  the  vividness  of  his 
conceptions;  but  the  opinion  is  wrong. 
Many  of  his  sonnets  possess  a  Miltonic 
vigour,  and  his  "  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  is  as 
highly  finished,  almost,  as  the  masterpieces 
of  POPE. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuff'd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline  : 
The  musie,  yearning  like  a  god  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retired  ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the 
year. 

She  danced  along  with  vagup,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips, her  breathing  quick  and  short: 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand  :   she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whispers  in  anerer,  or  in  sport ; 
Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  fairy  fancy  ;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes,  and  her  Iambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 

She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors, 


JOHN    KEATS. 


303 


Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth,  such 
things  have  been. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  love's  fev'rous  citadel. 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

Ah,  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 

'    The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 
He  startled  her :  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand, 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this 
place ; 

They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  bloodthirsty 


"  Get  hence !  get  hence !  there 's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand  ; 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land  : 
Then  there 's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me  !  flit  ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "  Ah  !  gossip  dear, 
We  're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how" — "  Good  saints  !  not  here,  not 

here; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy 

bier." 

He  followed  through  'a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume, 
And  as  she  mutter'd  «  Well-a — well-a-day  !" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room, 
Pule,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
«  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  Oh  tell  rne,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

"St.  Agnes !  Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon-  holy  days  : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
Butletme  laughawhile,  I'vemickle  time  to  grieve." 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crono 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 


As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney-nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  play,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  ! — I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than 
wolves  and  bears." 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may,  ere  the  midnight,  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  miss'd." — Thus  plaining,  doth  she 

bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  wo. 

Which  was  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beautv  unespied, 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame  : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here  my  child,  with  patience ;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while  :  Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd ; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd,and  chaste; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 


304 


JOHN    KEATS. 


Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware  : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd 
and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died  : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  : 
No  utter'd  syllable,  or,  wo  betide ! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon : 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  : — Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away  ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day ; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart Paynims  pray; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 


And  breathed  himself :  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo  ! — how 
fast  she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half-anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
Oh  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  arid  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucid  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd  • 

From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcarid  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  mv  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the,  dusk  curtains: — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies: 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 

So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  fantasies. 

/ 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy  ;" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan  : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone  : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep, 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  drcamingly. 


JOHN    KEATS. 


305 


"  Ah,  Porphyro  !"  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear ; 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 
Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  wo, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose  ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath 
set. 

'T  is  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"  This.is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  !" 
'Tis  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat: 
"  No  dream,  alas  !   alas  !   and  wo  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ] 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  1      [dyed  1 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped   and  vermeil 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 

"  Hark  !  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  fairy-land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise — arise  !  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed : — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead : 
Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-dropp'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side : 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 


By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot-worn  stones, 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  baron  dreamt  of  many  a  wo, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meager  face  deform. 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


HYMN  TO  PAN. 

O  THOU,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death, 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness  ; 
Who  lovest  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit,  and 

hearken 

The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth, 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now, 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow  ! 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :     O  thou  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage  ;  yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs ;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  poppied  corn ; 
The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
To  sing  for  thee  ;  low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness  ;  pent  up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings  ;  yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 
All  its  completions — be  quickly  near, 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
0  forester  divine  ! 

Thou,  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw  ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main, 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiad's  cells, 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping, 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones  brown — 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king ! 

2c2 


306 


JOHN    KEATS. 


O  Hearkener  to  the  loud-clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating  :   Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild  boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsman  :    Breather  round  our  farms, 
To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms: 
Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a  swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  : 
Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows  ! 

Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourn  of  heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain  :  be  still  the  leaven, 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth, 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth  : 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity ; 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea ; 
An  element  filling  the  space  between  ; 
An  unknown — but  no  more  :  we  humbly  screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending, 
And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rending, 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Peean, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  ! 


ADONIS. 

I  XEED  not  any  hearing  tire, 
By  telling  how  the  sea-born  goddess  pined 
For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  strove  to  bind 
Him  all  in  all  unto  her  doting  self. 
Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd  1  but,  fond  elf, 
He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 
Faint  through  his  careless  arms ;  content  to  see 
An  unseized  heaven  dying  at  his  feet ; 
Content,  O  fool !  to  make  a  cold  retreat, 
When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  love-lorn, 
,j    Lay  sorrowing;  when  every  tear  was  born 
''    Of  diverse  passion  ;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 
Were  closed  in  sullen  moisture,  and  quick  sighs 
Came  vex'd  and  pettish  through  her  nostrils  small. 
Hush  !  no  exclaim — yet,  justly  might'st  thou  call 
Curses  upon  his  head — I  was  half  glad, 
But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and  mad 
When  the  boar  tusk'd  him :  so  away  she  flew 
To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings  drew 
Immortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's  beard  ; 
Whereon  it  was  decreed  he  should  be  rear'd 
Each  summer-time  to  life.     Lo  !  this  is  he, 
That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 
Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter  sleep. 
Ay,  sleep;  for  when  our  love-sick  queen  did  weep 
Over  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous  shower 
Heal'd  up  the  wound,  and,  with  a  balmy  power 
Medicined  death  to  a  lengthen'd  drowsiness : 
The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth  dress 


In  all  this  quiet  luxury ;  and  hath  set 
Us  young  immortals,  without  any  let, 


To  watch  his  slumber  through.  'Tis  wellnigh  pass'd, 
Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 
She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant  through 
The  first  long  kiss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 
Embower'd  sports  in  Cytherea's  isle. 


TO    HOPE. 

WHEX  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit, 

And  hateful  thoughts  enwrap  my  soul  in  gloom; 
When  no  fair  dreams  before  my  "mind's  eye"  flit, 

And  the  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no  bloom : 
Sweet  Hope !  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

Whene'er  I  wander  at  the  fall  of  night,  [ray> 

Where  woven  boughs  shut  out  the  moon's  bright 

Should  sad  Despondency  my  musings  fright, 
And  frown  to  drive  fair  Cheerfulness  away, 

Peep  with  the  moon-beams  through  the  leafy  roof, 

And  keep  that  fiend  Despondence  far  aloof. 

Should  Disappointment,  parent  of  Despair, 
Strive  for  her  son  to  seize  my  careless  heart, 

When,  like  a  cloud,  he  sits  upon  the  air, 
Preparing  on  his  spell-bound  prey  to  dart : 

Chase  him  away,  sweet  Hope,  with  visage  bright, 

And  fright  him,  as  ths  morning  frightens  night ! 

Whene'er  the  fate  of  those  I  hold  most  dear 
Tells  to  my  fearful  breast  a  tale  of  sorrow, 

O  bright-eyed  Hope,  my  morbid  fancy  cheer ; 
Let  me  awhile  thy  sweetest  comforts  borrow: 

Thy  heaven-born  radiance  around  me  shed, 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head ! 

Should  e'er  unhappy  love  my  bosom  pain, 
From  cruel  parents,  or  relentless  fair, 

O  let  me  think  it  is  not  quite  in  vain 

To  sigh  out  sonnets  to  the  midnight  air ! 

Sweet  Hope  !  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

In  the  long  vista  of  the  years  to  roll, 

Let  me  not  see  our  country's  honour  fade ! 

0  let  me  see  our  land  retain  her  soul ! 

Her  pride,  her  freedom ;  and  not  freedom's  shade. 

From  thy  bright  eyes  unusual  brightness  shed, 

Beneath  thy  pinions  canopy  my  head ! 

Let  me  not  see  the  patriot's  high  bequest, 
Great  Liberty  !  how  great  in  plain  attire  ! 

With  the  base  purple  of  a  court  oppress'd, 
Bowing  her  head,  and  ready  to  expire : 

But  let  me  see  thee  stoop  from  heaven  on  wings 

That  fill  the  skies  with  silver  glitterings ! 

And  as,  in  sparkling  majesty,  a  star 

Gilds  the  bright  summit  of  some  gloomy  cloud ; 
Brightening  the  half-veil'd  face  of  heaven  afar; 

So,  when  dark  thoughts  my  boding  spirit  shroud, 
Sweet  Hope  !  celestial  influence  round  me  shed, 
Waving  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 


JOHN    KEATS. 


307 


SOVEREIGNTY  OF  LOVE. 

O  SOVEREIGN  power  of  love  !  O  grief!  O  balm ! 
All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool  and  calm, 
And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  of  passed  years; 
For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 
Have  become  indolent ;  but  touching  thine, 
One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth  pine, 
One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  buried  days. 
The  woes  of  Troy,  towers  smothering  o'er  their 

blaze, 

Stiflf-holden  shields,  far-piercing  spears,  keen  blades, 
Struggling,  and  blood,  and  shrieks — all  dimly  fades 
Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain  ; 
Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 
The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 
Hence,  pageant  history  !  hence,  gilded  cheat ! 
Swart  planet  in  the  universe  of  deeds  ! 
Wide  sea,  that  one  continuous  murmur  breeds 
Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory; 
Many  old  rotten-timber' d  boats  there  be 
Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 
To  goodly  vessels ;  many  a  sail  of  pride, 
And  golden-keel'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and  dry. 
But  wherefore  this  1     What  care,  though  owl  did 
About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast?        [fly 
What  care,  though  striding  Alexander  past 
The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers'? 
Though  old  Ulysses  tortured  from  his  slumbers 
The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  1 — Juliet  leaning 
Amid  her  window-flowers, — sighing,  weaning 
Tenderly  her  fancy  from  its  maiden  snow, 
Doth  more  avail  than  these :  the  silver  flow 
Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den, 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

Mr  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk ; 
'T  is  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth! 
0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  south, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 


The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret, 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and 

dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow, 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards; 
Already  with  thee !   tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  queen-moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  fays ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light. 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and,  for  many  a  time, 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath. 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain, 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for 

home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  land  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self. 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  't  is  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision  or  a  waking  dream  1 

Fled  is  that  music : — Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


308 


JOHN    KEATS. 


TO  AUTUMN. 

SEASOX  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless  [run ; 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eves 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel-shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  summer  has  o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy 
cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ] 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep,       [hook 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers ; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  spring  ]  Ay,  where  are  they  ] 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

THOU  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  1        [loth'? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  1     What  maidens 
What  mad  pursuit  1     What  struggle  to  escape  1 
What  pipes  and  timbrels  1   What  wild  ecstasy] 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 

Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve ; 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  spring  adieu  ; 


And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  I  more  happy,  happy  love ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy 'd, 

For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  1 
To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 

Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  1 

What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 

And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape!  Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  wo 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


ON  FIRST  SEEING  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER. 

MUCH  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 

Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne  : 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 

Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead  : 

That  is  the  grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 
Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 


JOHN    KEATS. 


309 


REGALITIES. 

THERE  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 
With  most  prevailing  tinsel :  who  unpen 
Their  baaing  vanities,  to  browse  away 
The  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 
From  human  pastures;  or,  O  torturing  fact! 
Who,  through  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  unpack'd 
Fire-branded  foxes  to  sear  up  and  singe 
Our  gold  and  ripe-ear'd  hopes.  With  not  one  tinge 
Of  sanctuary  splendour,  nor  a  sight 
Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  still  are  dight 
By  the  blear-eyed  nations  in  empurpled  vests, 
And  crowns,  and  turbans.     With  unladen  breasts, 
Save  of  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly  mount 
To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high  account, 
Their  tip-top  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their  thrones, 
Amid  the  fierce,  intoxicating  tones 
Of  trumpets,  shoutings,  and  belabour'd  drums, 
And  sudden  cannon.  Ah!  how  all  this  hums, 
In  wakeful  ears,  like  uproar  past  and  gone — 
Like  thunder-clouds  that  spake  to  Babylon, 
And  set  those  old  Chaldeans  to  their  tasks. 


ADONIS  SLEEPING. 

A  CHAMBER,  myrtle-wall'd,  embower'd  high, 
Full  of  light,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy, 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside: 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride, 
In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth, 
Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment  reach 
And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach, 
Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds, 
Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds — 
Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 
Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve 
Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light ; 
But  rather,  giving  them  to  the  fill'd  sight 
Officiously.     Side  way  his  faced  reposed 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclosed, 
By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 
To  slumbery  pout;  just  as  the  morning  south 
Disparts  a  dew-lipp'd  rose.     Above  his  head, 
Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honours  wed 
To  make  a  coronal ;  and  round  him  grew 
All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue, 
Together  intertwined  and  tramell'd  fresh  ; 
The  vine  of  glossy  sprout;  the  ivy  mesh 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries ;  and  woodbine, 
Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine; 
Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flush  ; 
The  creeper,  mellowing  for  an  autumn  blush ; 
And  virgin's  bower,  trailing  airily; 
With  others  of  the  sisterhood.     Hard  by 
Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 
One,  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touched  the  strings, 
Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings ; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber;  while  another  took 
A  willow  bough,  distilling  odorous  dew, 
And  shook  it  on  his  hair ;  another  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering-wise 
Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 


A  FAIRY  SCENE  FROM  ENDYMION 

PALACES  of  mottled  ore, 

Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquoise  floor, 
Black  polish'd  porticoes  of  awful  shade, 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade, 
Leading  afar  past  wild  magnificence, 
Spiral  through  ruggedest  loop-holes,  and  thence 
Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er 
Enormous  chasms,  where,  all  foam  and  roar, 
Streams  subterranean  tease  their  granite  beds ; 
Then  heighten'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear ;  but  at  the  splash 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  inclose 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork  streaming  round 
Alive,  and  dazzling,  and  with  a  sound, 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  float  of  Thetis.     Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight ;  for,  every  minute's  space, 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace ; 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines;  then  weeping  trees, 
Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind, 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refined, 
Pour'd  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies, 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  fair. 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare; 
And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams, 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof, 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd. 


SLEEP. 

O  MAGTC  sleep!  O  comfortable  bird, 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth  !   O  unconfined 
Restraint !  imprison'd  liberty  !   great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy, 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves, 
Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And  moonlight ;  aye,  to  all  the  mazy  world 
Of  silvery  enchantment ! — who,  unfurl'd 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing,  a  triple  hour 
But  renovates  and  lives'? 


SCENES  OF  BOYHOOD. 

THE  spirit  culls 

Unfaded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  strays 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish  days. 
A  little  onward  ran  the  very  stream 
By  which  he  took  his  first  soft  poppy  dream ; 
And  on  the  very  bark  'gainst  which  he  leant 
A  crescent  he  had  carved,  and  round  it  spent 
His  skill  in  little  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  swollen  and  green'd  the  pious  charactery, 
But  not  ta'en  out. 


310 


JOHN    KEATS. 


THL  MOON. 

I  HERE  swear, 

Eterne  Apollo  !  that  thy  sister  fair 
Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier  mightiest. 
When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west, 
She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne, 
And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most  alone ; 
As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient ; 
As  if  thine  eye,  high  poet !  was  not  bent 
Towards  her  with  the  muses  in  thine  heart ; 
As  if  the  ministering  stars  kept  not  apart, 
Waiting  for  silver-footed  messengers. 
O  moon !  the  oldest  shades  'morig  oldest  trees 
Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in: 
O  moon  !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 
The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 
Thou  dost  bless  every  where,  with  silver  lip, 
Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine, 
Couch'd  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine : 
Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise, 
Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes, 
And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 
One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 
Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 
Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken, 
And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy-leaf 
Takes  glimpses  of  thee ;  thou  art  a  relief 
To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within  its  pearly  house. — The  mighty  deeps, 
The  monstrous  sea  is  thine — the  myriad  sea ! 

0  moon  !  far-spooming  ocean  bows  to  thee, 
And  Tellus  feels  his  forehead's  cumbrous  load 

What  is  there  in  thee,  moon !  that  thou  should'st 
My  heart  so  potently  1    When  yet  a  child     [move 

1  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smiled. 
Thou  seem'dst  my  sister;  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 

No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree, 

Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously; 

No  tumbHug  water  ever  spake  romance, 

But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance: 

No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bowers  divine, 

Until  thou  liftedst  up  thine  eyelids  fine : 

In  sowing  time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 

Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake  ; 

And,  in  the  summer-tide  of  blossoming, 

No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing 

And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 

No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 

If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 

Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 

By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self-same  end ; 

And  as  I  grew  in  years,  still  didst  thou  blend 

With  all  my  ardours  :  thou  wast  the  deep  glen  ; 

Thou  wast  the  mountain-top — the  sage's  pen — 

The  poet's  harp — the  voice  of  friends — the  sun  ; 

Thou  wast  the  river — thou  wast  glory  won  ; 

Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast — thou  wast  my  steed — 

My  goblet  full  of  wine — mv  topmost  deed : — 

Thou  wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  moon  ! 

O  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune 

My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful ! 

On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  lull 

Myself  to  immortality. 


ROBIN  HOOD. 

TO    A    FRIEND. 

No  !  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years  : 
Many  times  have  winter's  shears, 
Frozen  north,  and  chilling  east, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 

No  !  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill, 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you ; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent ; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale, 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din  ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn  ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "  grene  shawe  ;" 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Ouce  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze: 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fallen  beneath  the  dockyard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas ; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange  !  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money  ! 

So  it  is :  yet  let  us  sing, 
Honour  to  the  old  bow-string! 
Honour  to  the  bugle-horn  ! 
Honour  to  the  woods  unshorn  ! 
Honour  to  the  Lincoln  green  ! 
Honour  to  the  archer  keen  ! 
Honour  to  tight  little  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon ! 
Honour  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood  ! 
Honour  to  maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood  clan  ! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 


JOHN    KEATS. 


311 


FANCY. 


EVER  let  the  fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home : 

At  a  touch  sweet  pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thoughts  still  spread  beyond  her: 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy !  let  her  loose  ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt,  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming; 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting:  what  do  then"? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night ; 

When. the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon ; 

When  the  night  doth  meet  the  noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overawed, 

Fancy,  high-comrnission'd : — send  her! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her: 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the' earth  hath  lost; 

She  will  bring  thee,  altogether, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray; 

All  the  heaped  autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth- 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it: — thou  shall  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  : 

And,  in  the  same  moment — hark! 

'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 

White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May; 

And  every  leaf  and  every  flower 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meager  from  its  celled  sleep; 

Arid  the  snake  all  winter-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hawthorn  tree, 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  dost  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  ne?t ; 


Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy!  let  her  loose  ; 

Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use  : 

Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 

Too  much  gazed  at?   where's  the  maid 

Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new! 

Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 

Doth  not  weary  1   where's  the  face 

One  would  meet  in  every  place  1 

Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  1 

At  a  touch  sweet  pleasure  melteth 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind  : 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  god  of  torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her, feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid.— Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  fancy's  silken  leash ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. — 

Let  the  winged  fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN. 

Souts  of  poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern! 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine } 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  1    O  generous  food  ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 

Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 

Nobody  knew  whither,  till 

An  astrologer's  old  quill 

To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, — 

Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 

Underneath  a  new-old  sign 

Sipping  beverage  divine, 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 

The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  1 


THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY. 


THOMAS  HAYNES  BAYLY  was  born  in  the 
city  of  Bath,  in  the  year  1797.  His  parents 
were  connected  with  some  of  the  first  families 
of  the  kingdom,  and  on  the  completion  of  his 
education  he  entered  under  favourable  auspices 
the  circles  of  the  most  refined  and  brilliant 
society  in  the  world.  At  twenty-eight  he  was 
married  to  an  accomplished  and  beautiful  wo- 
man, and  soon  afterward  retired  to  a  country- 
seat  in  Sussex,  where  he  continued  in  quiet- 
ness and  ease  until  1831,  when  an  unexpected 
misfortune  changed  the  current  of  his  life. 
His  wife  had  brought  him  a  considerable 
fortune,  but  it  had  been  expended  ;  his  father 
now  suddenly  became  a  bankrupt  and  left  the 
country,  and  the  income  settled  on  the  poet  at 
his  marriage  was  never  after  paid.  Litera- 
ture had  hitherto  been  his  amusement,  it  was 
from  this  time  his  profession.  He  had  already 
written  for  the  stage  and  the  boudoir,  he  now 
made  the  country  everywhere  vocal  with  his 
comedies  and  his  songs.  To  the  end  of  his 
life  he  was  one  of  the  most  industrious  as 
well  as  one  of  the  most  successful  authors  of 
England.  His  early  education  and  habits, 
however,  had  unfitted  him  for  his  new  posi- 
tion ;  he  could  not  fall  back  into  a  sufficiently 
economical  course  until  the  pressure  of  cir- 
cumstances had  impoverished  him  beyond  a 
remedy ;  and  though  the  amount  received  for 
his  various  writings  was  large,  he  was  always 
embarrassed.  Excitement  and  suffering  at 
length  induced  disease,  and  he  died,  at 
Cheltenham,  on  the  twenty-second  day  of 
April,  1839. 

Beside  his  lyrical  pieces  he  wrote  two  or 
three  novels,  a  large  number  of  tales  and 
sketches  in  the  "  New  Monthly"  and  other 
magazines,  and  more  than  thirty  dramas,  of 
which  "  Perfection,"  "Tom  Noddy's  Secret," 
"  Sold  for  a  Song,"  and  others,  have  been  suc- 
cessfully produced  in  the  American  theatres. 

With  the  exception  of  MOORE,  BAYLY  was 
probably  the  most  popular  English  song-wri- 
ter of  his  age ;  and  even  the  author  of  the 
"Irish  Melodies" — unequalled  as  he  is  for 
graceful  imagery  and  delicately  turned  expres- 
312 


sion — never  has  been  more  universally  a 
favourite.  "  Oh,  no  !  we  never  mention  her," 
"  The  Soldier's  Tear,"  "  She  wore  a  Wreath 
of  Roses,"  and  many  more  of  his  songs,  are 
familiar  wherever  the  language  is  spoken; 
they  are  of  that  class  which, 

"  in  his  solitude, 
The  singer  singeth  to  his  own  sad  heart ;" 

— simple,  natural,  graceful  and  tender — de- 
scriptive of  the  feelings  of  all,  in  a  language 
which  all  can  appreciate  and  understand.  An 
English  critic  supposes  that  he  is  indebted 
for  much  of  his  popularity  to  his  former  posi- 
tion in  society  ;  but  the  estimation  in  which 
which  his  compositions  are  held  in  this  coun- 
try, where  his  personal  history  was  unknown, 
shows  the  opinion  to  be  erroneous.  It  is  not 
always  easy  to  discover  the  true  causes  of  an 
author's  success.  BAYLY  was  certainly  not 
one  of  the  first  poets  of  his  time — the  century 
in  which  more  true  and  enduring  poetry  was 
written  than  in  any  other  since  the  invention 
of  letters ;  and  if  he  had  essayed  any  thing  of 
a  more  ambitious  character  than  the  simple 
ballad,  doubtless  he  would  have  failed ;  but 
by  her  who  dallies  with  a  coronet  and  the 
maiden  at  her  spinning-wheel,  by  the  soldier, 
the  student,  and  the  cottage  Damon,  his  melo- 
dies are  sung  with  equal  feeling  and  admira- 
tion. Many  have  written  "  songs,"  exquisitely 
beautiful  as  poems,  which  are  never  sung; 
and  others,  like  DIBDIN,  have  produced  songs 
for  particular  classes;  but  BAYLY  touches  the 
universal  heart.  He  is  never  mawkish,  never 
obscure,  and  rarely  meretricious  ;  his  verse  is 
singularly  harmonious ;  every  word  seems 
chosen  for  its  musical  sound  ;  and  his  modu- 
lation is  unsurpassed.  Our  rough  English 
flows  from  his  pen  as  smoothly  as  the  soft 
Italian  from  that  of  BOJARDO  or  METASTASIO. 

Two  editions  of  Mr.  BAYLY'S  poems  have 
been  published  in  the  present  year;  the 
first  in  Philadelphia,  and  the  last,  under  the 
supervision  of  his  widow,  in  London.  No 
collection  has  ever  been  made  of  his  tales  and 
essays  or  dramatic  writings. 


THOMAS    HAYNES    BAYLY. 


313 


THE  FIRST  GRAY  HAIR. 

THE  matron  at  her  mirror, 

With  her  hand  upon  her  brow, 
Sits  gazing  on  her  lovely  face, — 

Ay,  lovely  even  now ; 
Why  doth  she  lean  upon  her  hand 

With  such  a  look  of  care  1 
Why  steals  that  tear  across  her  cheek  1 

She  sees  her  first  gray  hair. 

Time  from  her  form  hath  ta*en  away 

But  little  of  its  grace; 
His  touch  of  thought  hath  dignified 

The  beauty  of  her  face  ; 
Yet  she  might  mingle  in  the  dance, 

Where  maidens  gaily  trip, 
So  bright  is  still  her  hazel  eye, 

So  beautiful  her  lip. 

The  faded  form  is  often  mark'd 

By  sorrow  more  than  years, — 
The  wrinkle  on  the  cheek  may  be 

The  course  of  secret  tears  ; 
The  mournful  lip  may  murmur  of 

A  love  it  ne'er  confest, 
And  the  dimness  of  the  eye  betray 

A  heart  that  cannot  rest. 

But  she  hath  been  a  happy  wife : 

The  lover  of  her  youth 
May  proudly  claim  the  smile  that  pays 

The  trial  of  his  truth  ; 
A  sense  of  slight, — of  loneliness, — 

Hath  never  banish'd  sleep  : 
Her  life  hath  been  a  cloudless  one  ; 

Then  wherefore  doth  she  weep  1 

She  look'd  upon  her  raven  locks, 

What  thoughts  did  they  recall  1 
Oh  !  not  of  nights  when  they  were  deck'd 

For  banquet  or  for  ball ; 
They  brought  back  thoughts  of  early  youth, 

Ere  she  had  learnt  to  check, 
With  artificial  wreaths,  the  curls 

That  sported  o'er  her  neck. 

She  seem'd  to  feel  her  mother's  hand 

Pass  lightly  through  her  hair, 
And  draw  it  from  her  brow,  to  leave 

A  kiss  of  kindness  there ; 
She  seem'd  to  view  her  father's  smile, 

And  feel  the  playful  touch 
That  sometimes  feign'd  to  steal  away 

The  curls  she  prized  so  much. 

And  now  she  sees  her  first  gray  hair ! 

Oh,  deem  it  not  a  crime 
For  her  to  weep,  when  she  beholds 

The  first  footmark  of  Time  ! 
She  knows  that,  one  by  one,  those  mute 

Mementos  will  increase, 
And  steal  youth,  beauty,  strength  away, 

Till  life  itself  shall  cease. 

'Tis  not  the  tear  of  vanity 
For  beauty  on  the  wane ; 
40 


Yet,  though  the  blossom  may  not  sigh 

To  bud  and  bloom  again — 
It  cannot  but  remember, 

With  a  feeling  of  regret, 
The  spring  for  ever  gone, — 

The  summer  sun  so  nearly  set. 

Ah,  lady  !  heed  the  monitor  ! 

Thy  mirror  tells  thee  truth  ; 
Assume  the  matron's  folded  veil, 

Resign  the  wreath  of  youth  : 
Go  !  bind  it  on  thy  daughter's  brow, 

In  her  thou'lt  still  look  fair — 
'Twere  well  would  all  learn  wisdom  who 

Behold  the  first  gray  hair ! 


THE  SOLDIER'S  TEAR. 

UPON  the  hill  he  turn'd 

To  take  a  last  fond  look 
Of  the  valley  and  the  village  church 

And  the  cottage  by  the  brook ; 
He  listen'd  to  tbe  sounds, 

So  familiar  to  his  ear, 
And  the  soldier  leant  upon  his  sword, 

And  wiped  away  a  tear. 

Beside  that  cottage  porch 

A  girl  was  on  her  knees, 
She  held  aloft  a  snowy  scarf, 

Which  flutter'd  in  the  breeze  ; 
She  breath'd  a  prayer  for  him, 

A  prayer  he  could  not  hear, 
But  he  paused  to  bless  her,  as  she  knelt, 

And  wiped  away  a  tear. 

He  turn'd  and  left  the  spot, 

Oh,  do  not  deem  him  weak  ; 
For  dauntless  was  the  soldier's  heart, 

Though  tears  were  on  his  cheek ; 
Go  watch  the  foremost  rank 

In  danger's  dark  career, 
Be  sure  the  hand  most  daring  there 

Has  wiped  away  a  tear. 


WITHER  AWAY. 

WITHER  away,  green  leaves, 

Wither  away,  sweet  flowers ; 
For  me  in  vain  young  Spring  has  thrown" 

Her  mantle  o'er  the  bowers : 
Sing  not  to  me,  gay  birds, 

Borne  in  bright  plumage  hither ; 
The  heart  recoils  from  pleasure's  voice 

When  all  its  fond  hopes  wither ! 

Wither  away,  my  friends, 

Whom  I  have  loved  sincerely  ; 
'Tis  hard  to  sigh  for  the  silent  tomb 

As  a  place  of  rest,  so  early  ! 
While  others  prize  the  rose, 

The  cypress  wreath  I  '11  gather ; 
The  heart  recoils  from  pleasure's  voice 

When  all  its  fond  hopes  wither. 
2D 


314 


THOMAS    HAYNES    BAYLY. 


I'M  SADDEST  WHEN  I  SING. 

You  think  I  have  a  merry  heart, 

Because  my  songs  are  gay  ; 
But,  oh !  they  all  were  taught  to  me 

By  friends  now  far  away  ; 
The  bird  retains  his  silver  note, 

Though  bondage  chains  his  wing ; 
His  song  is  not  a  happy  one, — 

I'm  saddest  when  I  sing  ! 

I  heard  them  first  in  that  sweet  home 

I  never  more  shall  see, 
And  now  each  song  of  joy  has  got 

A  plaintive  turn  for  me  ! 
Alas  !  'tis  vain  in  winter  time 

To  mock  the  songs  of  spring, 
Each  note  recalls  some  wither'd  leaf, — 

I  'm  saddest  when  I  sing  ! 

Of  all  the  friends  I  used  to  love, 

My  harp  remains  alone, 
Its  faithful  voice  still  seems  to  be 

An  echo  of  my  own  : 
My  tears,  when  I  bend  over  it, 

Will  fall  upon  its  string, 
Yet  those  who  hear  me,  little  think 

I  'm  saddest  when  I  sing ! 


I  NEVER  WAS  A  FAVOURITE. 

I  XEVER  was  a  favourite, — 

My  mother  never  smiled 
On  me,  with  half  the  tenderness 

That  bless'd  her  fairer  child  : 
I  've  seen  her  kiss  my  sister's  cheek, 

While  fondled  on  her  knee  ; 
I've  turn'd  away,  to  hide  my  tears, — 

There  was  no  kiss  for  me  ! 

And  yet  I  strove  to  please  with  all 

My  little  store  of  sense  ; 
I  strove  to  please, — and  infancy 

Can  rarely  give  offence  : 
But  when  my  artless  efforts  met 

A  cold,  ungentle  check, 
I  did  not  dare  to  throw  myself 

In  tears  upon  her  neck  ! 

How  blessed  are  the  beautiful ! 

Love  watches  o'er  their  birth  ; 
Oh,  beauty  !  in  my  nursery 

I  learn'd  to  know  thy  worth : 
For  even  there  I  often  felt 

Forsaken  and  forlorn ; 
And  wish'd — for  others  wish'd  it  too — 

I  never  had  been  born  ! 

I'm  sure  I  was  affectionate; 

But  in  my  sister's  face 
There  was  a  look  of  love,  that  claim'd 

A  smile  or  an  embrace : 
But  when  I  raised  my  lip  to  meet 

The  pressure  children  prize, 
None  knew  the  feelings  of  my  heart, — 

They  spoke  not  in  my  eyes. 


But,  oh  !  that  heart  too  keenly  felt 

The  anguish  of  neglect ; 
I  saw  my  sister's  lovely  form 

With  gems  and  roses  deck'd 
I  did  not  covet  them  ;  but  oft, 

When  wantonly  reproved, 
I  envied  her  the  privilege 

Of  being  so  beloved. 

But  soon  a  time  of  triumph  came, — 

A  time  of  sorrow  too ; 
For  sickness  o'er  my  sister's  form 

Her  venom'd  mantle  threw  ; 
The  features,  once  so  beautiful,  ' 

Now  wore  the  hue  of  death  ; 
And  former  friends  shrank  fearfully 
From  her  infectious  breath. 

'Twas  then,  unwearied  day  and  night, 

I  watch'd  beside  her  bed ; 
And  fearlessly  upon  my  breast 

I  pillow'd  her  poor  head. 
She  lived  ! — and  loved  me  for  my  care, 

My  grief  was  at  an  end  ; 
I  was  a  lonely  being  once, 

But  now  I  have  a  friend. 


SHE  WORE  A  WREATH  OF  ROSES. 


SHE  wore  a  wreath  of  roses 

The  night  that  first  we  met, 
Her  lovely  face  was  smiling 

Beneath  her  curls  of  jet ; 
Her  footstep  had  the  lightness 

Her  voice  the  joyous  tone, 
The  tokens  of  a  youthful  heart, 

Where  sorrow  is  unknown  ; 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment — 

Yet,  methinks,  I  see  her  now, 
With  the  wreath  of  summer  flowers 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

A  wreath  of  orange  blossoms, 

When  next  we  met,  she  wore ; 
The  expression  of  her  features 

Was  more  thoughtful  than  before  ; 
And  standing  by  her  side  was  one 

Who  strove,  and  not  in  vain, 
To  soothe  her,  leaving  that  dear  home 

She  ne'er  might  view  again. 
I  saw  her  but  a.moment — 

Yet,  methinks,  I  see  her  now, 
With  the  wreath  of  orange  blossoms 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

And  once  again  I  see  that  brow, 

No  bridal  wreath  is  there, 
The  widow's  sombre  cap  conceals 

Her  once  luxuriant  hair; 
She  weeps  in  silent  solitude, 

And  there  is  no  one  near 
To  press  her  hand  within  his  own, 

And  wipe  away  the  tear. 
I  see  her  broken-hearted  ! 

Yet,  methinks,  I  see  her  now 
In  the  pride  of  youth  and  beauty, 

With  a  garland  on  her  brow. 


THOMAS    HAYNES    BAYLY. 


315 


THE  ROSE  THAT  ALL  ARE  PRAISING. 

THE  rose  that  all  are  praising 

Is  not  the  rose  for  me  ; 
Too  many  eyes  are  gazing 

Upon  the  costly  tree ; 
But  there's  a  rose  in  yonder  glen, 
That  shuns  the  gaze  of  other  men, 
For  me  its  blossom  raising, — 
Oh  !  that 's  the  rose  for  me. 

The  gem  a  king  might  covet 

Is  not  the  gem  for  me ; 
From  darkness  who  would  move  it, 

Save  that  the  world  may  see  1 
But  I've  a  gem  that  shuns  display, 
And  next  my  heart  worn  every  day, 
So  dearly  do  I  love  it, — 

Oh  !  that's  the  gem  for  me. 

Gay  birds  in  cages  pining 

Are  not  the  birds  for  me ; 
Those  plumes,  so  brightly  shining, 

Would  fain  fly  off  from  thee : 
But  I've  a  bird  that  gayly  sings; 
Though  free  to  rove,  she  folds  her  wings, 
For  me  her  flight  resigning, — 
Oh  !  that 's  the  bird  for  me. 


SHE   NEVER  BLAMED   HIM. 

SHE  never  blamed  him,  never ; 

But  received  him,  when  he  came, 
With  a  welcome  kind  as  ever, 

And  she  tried  to  look  the  same  ; 
But  vainly  she  dissembled — 

For  whene'er  she  tried  to  smile, 
A  tear  unbidden,  trembled, 

In  her  blue  eye  all  the  while. 

She  knew  that  she  was  dying, 

And  she  dreaded  not  her  doom ; 
She  never  thought  of  sighing 

O'er  her  beauty's  blighted  bloom. 
She  knew  her  cheek  was  alter'd, 

And  she  knew  her  eye  was  dim  ; 
Her  voice,  though,  only  falter'd 

When  she  spoke  of  losing  him. 

'T  is  true  that  he  had  lured  her 

From  the  isle  where  she  was  born — 
'T  is  true  he  had  inured  her 

To  the  cold  world's  cruel  scorn ; 
But  yet  she  never  blamed  him 

For  the  anguish  she  had  known ; 
And  though  she  seldom  named  him, 

Yet  she  thought  of  him  alone. 

She  sigh'd  when  he  caress'd  her, 

For  she  knew  that  they  must  part ; 
She  spoke  not  when  he  press'd  her 

To  his  young  and  panting  heart. 
The  banners  waved  around  her, 

And  she  heard  the  bugle's  sound — 
They  pass'd — rand  strangers  found  her 

Cold  and  lifeless  on  the  ground. 


SHE  WOULD    NOT  KNOW  ME. 

SHE  would  not  know  me  were  she  now  to  view  me ; 
VTy  heart  was  gay,  when  long  ago  she  knew  me ; 
Vly  songs  were  daily  tuned  to  some  gay  measure, 
And  all  my  visions  were  of  future  pleasure ; 
3h !  tell  her  not  that  grief  could  thus  o'erthrow  me, 
3ut  let  her  pass  me  by — she  will  not  know  me. 

n  these  sad  accents  she  will  ne'er  discover 
The  cheerful  voice  of  him  who  was  her  lover ; 
\"or  will  these  features  in  their  gloom  remind  her 
Of  the  gay  smile  they  wore  when  she  was  kinder : 
3h  !  tell  her  not  that  grief  could  thus  o'erthrow  me, 
But  let  her  pass  me  by — she  will  not  know  me. 

T  would  pain  her,  did  she  note  my  deep  dejection* 
To  know  that  she  had  crush'd  such  fond  affection  : 
And  not  for  all  the  world  shall  my  distresses 

base  from  her  heart  the  joy  it  still  possesses ; 
Oh  !  tell  her  not  that  grief  could  thus  o'erthrow  me, 
But  let  her  pass  me  by — she  will  not  know  me. 


THE  OLD  KIRK  YARD. 

OH  !  come,  come  with  me,  to  the  old  kirk  yard, 

well  know  the  path  through  the  soft  green  sward  ; 
Friends  slumber  there  we  were  wont  to  regard, 
We  '11  trace  out  their  names  in  the  old  kirk  yard. 
Oh !  mourn  not  for  them,  their  grief  is  o'er, 
Oh  !  weep  not  for  them,  they  weep  no  more, 
For  deep  is  their  sleep,  though  cold  and  hard 
Their  pillow  may  be  in  the  old  kirk  yard. 

I  know  it  is  in  vain,  when  friends  depart, 

To  breathe  kind  words  to  a  broken  heart ; 

I  know  that  the  joy  of  life  seems  marr'd 

When  we  follow  them  home  to  the  old  kirk  yard. 

But  were  I  at  rest  beneath  yon  tree, 

Why  shouldst  thou  weep,  dear  love,  for  me  ; 

I'm  wayworn  and  sad,  ah  !  why  then  retard 

The  rest  that  I  seek  in  the  old  kirk  yard  1 


GRIEF  WAS  SENT  THEE  FOR  THY 
GOOD. 

SOME  there  are  who  seem  exempted 

From  the  doom  incurr'd  by  all ; 
Are  they  not  more  sorely  tempted  1 

Are  they  not  the  first  to  fall  1 
As  a  mother's  firm  denial 

Checks  her  infant's  wayward  mood, 
Wisdom  lurks  in  every  trial — 

Grief  was  sent  thee  for  thy  good. 

In  the  scenes  of  former  pleasure, 

Present  anguish  hast  thou  felt  ? 
O'er  thy  fond  heart's  dearest  treasure 

As  a  mourner  hast  thou  knelt  ? 
In  the  hour  of  deep  affliction, 

Let  no  impious  thought  intrude, 
Meekly  bow  with  this  conviction, 

Grief  was  sent  thee  for  thy  good. 


316 


THOMAS    HAYNES    BAYLY. 


I  TURN  TO  THEE  IN  TIME  OF   NEED. 


to  thee  in  time  of  need, 

And  never  turn  in  vain  ; 
I  see  thy  fond  and  fearless  smile, 

And  hope  revives  again. 
It  gives  me  strength  to  struggle  on, 

Whate'er  the  strife  may  be  ; 
And  if  again  my  courage  fail, 

Again  I  turn  to  thee. 

Thy  timid  beauty  charm'd  me  first  ; 

I  breathed  a  lover's  vow, 
But  little  thought  to  find  the  friend 

Whose  strength  sustains  me  now  ; 
I  deem'd  thee  made  for  summer  skies, 

But  in  the  stormy  sea, 
Deserted  by  all  former  friends, 

Dear  love,  I  turn  to  thee. 

Should  e'er  some  keener  sorrow  throw 

A  shadow  o'er  my  mind  ; 
And  should  I,  thoughtless,  breathe  to  thee 

One  word  that  is  unkind  ; 
Forgive  it,  love  !  thy  smile  will  set 

My  better  feelings  free  ; 
And  with  a  look  of  boundless  love, 

I  still  shall  turn  to  thee. 


OH  NO  !   WE  NEVER  MENTION  HER. 

OH,  no  !  we  never  mention  her  ; 

Her  name  is  never  heard ; 
My  lips  are  now  forbid  to  speak 

That  once  familiar  word. 
From  sport  to  sport  they  hurry  me, 

To  banish  my  regret ; 
And  when  they  win  a  smile  from  me, 

They  think  that  I  forget. 

They  bid  me  seek  in  change  of  scene 

The  charms  that  others  see ; 
But  were  I  in  a  foreign  land, 

They  'd  find  no  change  in  me. 
'T  is  true  that  I  behold  no  more 

The  valley  where  we  met ; 
I  do  not  see  the  hawthorn  tree — 

But  how  can  I  forget ! 

They  tell  me  she  is  happy  now — 

The  gayest  of  the  gay  ; 
,    They  hint  that  she  forgets  me  now, 

But  heed  not  what  they  say  ; 
Like  me  perhaps  she  struggles  with 

Each  feeling  of  regret; 
But  if  she  loves,  as  I  have  loved, 

She  never  can  forget. 


ISLE  OF  BEAUTY,  FARE  THEE  WELL 

SHADES  of  evening,  close  not  o'er  us, 

Leave  our  lonely  bark  awhile  ! 
Morn,  alas  !  will  not  restore  us 

Yonder  dim  and  distant  isle ; 
Still  my  fancy  can  discover 

Sunny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell ; 
Darker  shadows  round  us  hover, 

Isle  of  Beauty,  fare  thee  well ! 

'Tis  the  hour  when  happy  faces 

Smile  around  the  taper's  light; 
Who  will  fill  our  vacant  places  ] 

Who  will  sing  our  songs  to-night  1 
Through  the  mist  that  floats  above  us, 

Faintly  sounds  the  vesper  bell, 
Like  a  voice  from  those  who  love  us, 

Breathing,  fondly,  fare  thee  well ! 

When  the  waves  are  round  me  breaking, 

As  I  pace  the  deck  alone, 
And  my  eye  in  vain  is  seeking 

Some  green  leaf  to  rest  upon  ; 
What  would  not  I  give  to  wander 

Where  rny  old  companions  dwell  ? 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder, 

Isle  of  Beauty,  fare  thee  well ! 


I'D   BE  A  BUTTERFLY. 

I  'D  be  a  butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Where  roses  and  lilies  and  violets  meet ; 
Roving  for  ever  from  flower  to  flower, 

Kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 
I'd  never  languish  for  wealth  or  for  power, 

I  'd  never  sigh  to  see  slaves  at  my  feet ; 
I  'd  be  a  butterfly  born  in  a  bower, 

Kissing  all  buds  that  are  pretty  and  sweet. 

Oh  !  could  I  pilfer  the  wand  of  a  fairy, 

I  'd  have  a  pair  of  those  beautiful  wings. 
Their  summer  day's  ramble  is  sportive  and  airy, 

They  sleep  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 
Those  who  have  wealth  must  be  watchful  and  wary, 

Power,  alas  !  naught  but  misery  brings ; 
I'd  be  a  butterfly,  sportive  and  airy, 

Rock'd  in  a  rose  when  the  nightingale  sings. 

What  though  you  tell  me  each  gay  little  rover 

Shrinks  from  the  breath  of  the  first  autumn  day ; 
Surely  'tis  better,  when  summer  is  over, 

To  die,  when  all  fair  things  are  fading  away. 
Some  in  life's  winter  may  toil  to  discover 

Means  of  procuring  a  weary  delay  : 
I  'd  be  a  butterfly,  living  a  rover, 

Dying  when  fair  things  are  fading  away. 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


THE  Rev.' GEORGE  CROLY  was  born  in  Ire- 
land, I  believe  in  1786,  and  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  where  he  graduated 
with  a  high  reputation  for  abilities  and  scho- 
larship. Soon  after  receiving  the  degree  of 
Master  of  Arts,  he  entered  holy  orders  and  was 
appointed  rector  of  a  parish  in  the  diocess  of 
Meath.  He  remained  here  until  the  com- 
mencement of  the  war  in  Spain,  when  he 
went  to  London  with  a  view  to  visit  the  Pen- 
insula. The  peace  of  1815,  however,  induced 
a  change  of  his  intentions,  and  he  directed  his 
course  through  Germany  to  Paris,  where  he 
wrote  the  larger  portion  of  his  first  considera- 
ble work,  Paris  in  1815,  which  was  published 
on  his  return  to  England,  and  received  with 
unusual  applause,  though  its  appearance  was 
in  the  most  brilliant  period  of  modern  English 
literature,  the  period  in  which  BYRON,  SHELLEY, 
and  the  other  great  poets  of  the  century,  were 
in  turn  enchaining  the  ad  miration  of  mankind. 
He  subsequently  wrote  a  second  part  to  this 
poem,  and  The  Angel  of  the  World,  Catiline, 
a  Tragedy,  Sebastian  a  Spanish  Tale,  and 
numerous  fugitive  pieces,  which  were  pub- 
lished collectively  by  Colburn  in  1830. 

The  Angel  of  the  World  is  founded  on  one 
of  the  fictions  of  the  Koran.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  carefully  finished  of  CROLY'S  poems,  and 
is  given,  without  abridgment,  in  this  volume. 
Sebastian  is  a  fine  romantic  sketch,  but  in 
execution  is  unequal  to  his  other  works.  I  do 
not  know  whether  Catiline  has  ever  been  pre- 
sented on  the  stage ;  probably  it  has  not, 
though  it  seems  to  me  better  fitted  for  repre- 
sentation than  many  very  successful  pieces. 

The  conspirator  had,  according  to  CICERO, 
"a  multitude,  not  perhaps  so  much  of  virtues, 
as  of  approaches  to  virtues.  He  was  the  most 
extraordinary  contradiction  on  earth  ;  a  com- 
pound of  all  opposite  qualities.  Who  could 
stand  higher  with  honourable  men  at  one  time  1 
or,  at  another,  who  was  more  implicated  with 
the  worst?  He  had  a  wonderful  power  of 
bending  individuals  to  his  interests  ;  no  man 
could  exhibit  more  zeal ;  none  be  more  liberal 
of  his  public  credit,  his  purse,  and,  when 
darker  occasions  called  for  it,  his  whole  inven- 


tion in  evil.  Austere  with  the  rigid,  gay  with 
the  gay,  grave  with  the  grave,  ardent  with 
the  young,  bold  with  the  bold,  and  sumptuous 
with  the  prodigal :  by  this  singular  flexibility 
and  variety  of  powers  he  collected  around  him 
men  of  all  descriptions,  the  daring  and  disso- 
lute, and,  at  the  same  time,  many  of  the  manly 
and  estimable."  CROLY  follows  CICERO  in 
this  estimate  of  his  hero,  and  thus  avoids  a 
resemblance  to  JONSON,  CREBILLON,  VOLTAIRE, 
and  other  poets  who  have  made  the  Cati- 
linian  conspiracy  the  subject  of  tragedies, 
and  adopted  the  sketch  by  SALLUST.  What- 
ever may  be  the  merits  of  Catiline  as  a  play, 
it  is  an  admirable  poem,  and  would  alone  have 
entitled  its  author  to  a  high  rank  among  his 
contemporaries. 

CROLY  has  a  remarkable  splendour  of  lan- 
goage;  he  is  stately,  dignified,  and  affluent 
in  imagery ;  but  sometimes,  from  condensa- 
tion and  inversions,  obscure ;  and  he  is  defi- 
cient in  simplicity  and  tenderness,  which  is 
doubtless  the  principal  reason  why  his  works 
are  so  little  read. 

He  is  not  less  distinguished  as  a  prose  writer 
than  as  a  poet.  His  Salathiel,  a  Story  of  the 
Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future,  has  hardly 
been  surpassed  in  energy,  pathos,  or  dramatic 
interest,  by  any  romance  of  the  time  ;  and  his 
Tales  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard  were  nearly  as 
attractive  and  popular.  Besides  these,  he  has 
published  a  Life  of  George  the  Fourth,  The 
Year  of  Liberation,  The  Providence  of  God  in 
the  Latter  Days,  being  a  New  Interpretation 
of  the  Apocalypse  of  St.  John,  Speeches,  and 
other  works  in  theology,  in  criticism,  and  in 
history,  which  are  in  their  respective  depart- 
ments original,  powerful,  and  peculiar. 

Dr.  CROLY  has  been  actively  engaged  in  the 
discharge  of  his  professional  duties  most  of 
the  time  since  his  return  from  the  Continent. 
When  Lord  BROUGHAM  was  made  chancellor 
he  presented  him  one  of  the  livings  in  the  gift 
of  the  crown,  and,  in  1835,  Lord  LYNDHURST 
gave  him  the  rectory  of  St.  Stephens,  London, 
in  which  he  still  remains.  The  degree  of 
Doctor  of  Laws  was  conferred  upon  him  by 
Trinity  College,  Dublin. 

2  D  2  317 


318 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  WORLD. 

THERE'S  glory  on  thy  mountains,  proud  Bengal, 
When  on  their  temples  bursts  the  morning  sun  ! 
There's  glory  on  thy  marble-tower'd  wall, 
Proud  Ispahan,  beneath  his  burning  noon  ! 
There's  glory — when  his  golden  course  is  done, 
Proud  Istamboul,  upon  thy  waters  blue  ! 
But  fall'n  Damascus,  thine  was  beauty's  throne, 
In  morn,  and  noon,  and  evening's  purple  dew, 
Of  all  from  Ocean's  marge  to  mighty  Himmalu. 

East  of  the  city  stands  a  lofty  mount, 
Its  brow  with  lightning  delved  and  rent  in  sunder  ; 
And  through  the  fragments  rolls  a  little  fount, 
Whose  channel  bears  the  blast  of  fire  and  thunder ; 
And  there  has  many  a  pilgrim  come  to  wonder  ; 
For  there  are  flowers  unnumber'd  blossoming, 
With  but  the  bare  and  calcined  marble  under; 
Yet  in  all  Asia  no  such  colours  spring, 
No  perfumes  rich  as  in  that  mountain's  rocky  ring. 

And  some  who  pray'd  the  night  out  on  the  hill, 
Have  said  they  heard — unless  it  was  their  dream, 
Or  the  mere  murmur  of  the  babbling  rill, — 
Just  as  the  morn-star  shot  its  first  slant  beam, 
A  sound  of  music,  such  as  they  might  deem 
The  song  of  spirits — that  would  sometimes  sail 
Close  to  their  ear,  a  deep,  delicious  stream, 
Then  sweep  away,  and  die  with  a  low  wail ; 
Then  come  again,  and  thus,  till  Lucifer  was  pale. 

And  some,  but  bolder  still,  had  dared  to  turn 
That  soil  of  mystery  for  hidden  gold  ; 
But  saw  strange,  stifling  blazes  round  them  burn, 
And  died  : — by  few  that  venturous  tale  was  told. 
And  wealth  was  found  ;  yet,  as  the  pilgrims  hold, 
Though  it  was  glorious  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
Brought  to  the  plain  it  crumbled  into  mould, 
The  diamonds  melted  in  the  hand  like  snow  ; 
So  none  molest  that  spot  for  gems  or  ingots  now. 

But  one,  and  ever  after,  round  the  hill 
He  stray 'd  : — they  said  a  meteor  scorch'd  his  sight; 
Blind,  mad,  a  warning  of  Heaven's  fearful  will. 
'Twas  on  the  sacred  evening  of  "  The  Flight," 
His  spade  turn'd  up  a  shaft  of  marble  white, 
Fragment  of  some  kiosk,  the  chapiter 
A  crystal  circle,  but  at  morn's  first  light 
Rich  forms  began  within  it  to  appear, 
Sceptred  and  wing'd,  and  then,  it  sank  in  water  clear. 

Yet  once  upon  that  guarded  mount,  no  foot 
But  of  the  Moslem  true  might  press  a  flower, 
And  of  them  none,  but  with  some  solemn  suit 
Beyond  man's  help,  might  venture  near  the  bower: 
For,  in  its  shade,  in  beauty  and  in  power, 
For  judgment  sat  the  Angel  of  the  World: 
Sent  by  the  prophet,  till  the  destined  hour 
That  saw  in  dust  Arabia's  idols  hurl'd, 
Then  to  the  skies  again  his  wing  should  be  unfurl'd. 

It  came  at  last.    It  came  with  trumpets'  sounding, 
It  came  with  thunders  of  the  atabal, 
And  warrior  shouts,  and  Arab  chargers'  bounding, 
The  Sacred  Standard  crown'd  Medina's  wall  ! 
From  palace  roof,  and  minaret's  golden  ball, 


Ten  thousand  emerald  banners  floated  free, 
Beneath,  like  sunbeams,  through  the  gateway  tall, 
The- emirs  led  their  stecl-mail'd  chivalry, 
And  the  whole  city  rang  with  sports  and  soldier  glee. 

This  was  the  eve  of  eves,  the  end  of  war, 
Beginning  of  Dominion,  first  of  Time  ! 
When,  swifter  than  the  shooting  of  a  star, 
Mohammed  saw  the  <•  Vision's"  pomp  sublime  ; 
Swept  o'er  the  rainbow'd  sea — the  fiery  clime, 
Heard  from  the  throne  its  will  in  thunders  roll'd  ; 
Then  glancing  on  our  world  of  wo  and  crime, 
Saw  from  Arabia's  san<:s  his  banner's  fold 
Wave  o'er  the  brighten'd  globe  its  sacred,  conquer- 
ing gold. 

The  sun  was  slowly  sinking  to  the  west, 
Pavilion'd  with  a  thousand  glorious  dyes  ; 
The  turtle-doves  were  winging  to  the  nest 
Along  the  mountain's  soft  declivities  ; 
The  fresher  breath  of  flowers  began  to  rise, 
Like  incense,  to  that  sweet  departing  sun  ; 
Faint  as  the  hum  of  be?s  the  city's  cries  : 
A  moment,  and  the  lingering  disk  was  gone ; 
Then  were  the  angel's  ta.sk  on  earth's  dim  orbit  done. 

Oft  had  he  gazed  upon  that  lovely  vale, 
But  never  gazed  with  gladness  such  as  now  ; 
When  on  Damascus'  roofs  and  turrets  pale 
He  saw  the  solemn  sunlight's  fainter  glow, 
With  joy  he  heard  the  Imauns'  voices  flow 
Like  breath  of  silver  trumpets  on  the  air; 
The  vintagers'  sweet  song,  the  camels'  low, 
As  home  they  stalk'd  from  pasture,  pair  by  pair, 
Flinging  their  shadows  tall  in  the  steep  sunset  glare. 

Then  at  his  sceptre's  wave,  a  rush  of  plumes 
Shook  the  thick  dew-drops  from  the  roses'  dyes ; 
And,  as  imbodying  of  their  waked  perfumes, 
A  crowd  of  lovely  forms,  with  lightning  eyes, 
And  flower-crown'd  hair,  and  cheeks  of  Paradise, 
Circled  the  bower  of  beauty  on  the  wing  : 
And  all  the  grove  was  rich  with  symphonies 
Of  seeming  flute,  and  horn,  and  golden  string, 
That  slowly  rose,  and  o'er  the  Mount  hung  hovering. 

The  angel's  flashing  eyes  were  on  the  vault, 
That  now  with  lamps  of  diamond  all  was  hung; 
His  mighty  wings  like  tissues  heavenly-wrought, 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  air  were  hung. 
The  solemn  hymn's  last,  harmonies  were  sung, 
The  sun  was  couching  on  the  distant  zone ; 
"Farewell"  was  breathing  on  the  angel's  tongue; — 
He  glanced  below.     There  stood  a  suppliant  one  ! 
The  impatient  angel  sank,  in  wrath,  upon  his  throne. 

Yet  all  was  quickly  sooth'd, — "  this  labour  past, 
"  His  coronet  of  tenfold  light  was  won." 
His  glance  again  upon  the  form  was  cast, 
That  now  seem'd  dying  on  the  dazzling  stone ; 
He  bade  it  rise  and  speak.     The  solemn  tone 
Of  earth's  high  Sovereign  mingled  joy  with  fear, 
As  summer  vales  of  rose  by  lightning  shown; 
As  the  night-fountain  in  the  desert  drear;     [ear. 
His  voice  seem'd  sudden  life  to  that  fall'n  suppliant's 

The  form  arose — the  face  was  in  a  veil, 

The  voice  was  low,  and  often  check'd  with  sighs ; 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


319 


The  tale  it  utter'd  was  a  simple  tale : 
"  A  vow  to  close  a  dying  parent's  eyes 
Had  brought  its  weary  steps  from  Tripolis; 
The  Arab  in  the  Syrian  mountains  lay, 
The  caravan  was  made  the  robber's  prize, 
The  pilgrim's  little  wealth  was  swept  away, 
Man's  help  was  vain."     Here  sank  the  voice  i 
soft  decay. 

"  And  this  is  earth  !"  the  angel  frowning  said  ; 
And  from  the  ground  he  took  a  matchless  gem, 
And  flung  it  to  the  mourner,  then  outspread 
His  pinions,  like  the  lightning's  rushing  beam. 
The  pilgrim  started  at  the  diamond's  gleam, 
Glanced  up  in  pray'r,  then,  bending  near  the  throne 
Shed  the  quick  tears  that  from  the  bosom  stream 
And  tried  to  speak,  but  tears  were  there  alone ; 
The  pitying  angel  said,  "Be  happy  and  begone.' 

The  weeper  raised  the  veil ;  a  ruby  lip 

First  dawn'd :    then  glow'd  the  young  cheek's 

deeper  hue, 

Yet  delicate  as  roses  when  they  dip 
Their  odorous  blossoms  in  the  morning  dew. 
Then  beam'd  the  eyes,  twin  stars  of  living  blae 
Half-shaded  by  the  curls  of  glossy  hair, 
That  turn'd  to  golden  as  the  light  wind  threw 
Their  clusters  in  the  western  golden  glare. 
Yet  was  her  blue  eye  dim,  for  tears  were  standing 
there. 

He  look'd  upon  her,  and  her  hurried  gaze 
Sought  from  his  glance  sweet  refuge  on  the  ground; 
But  o'er  her  cheek  of  beauty  rush'd  a  blaze; 
And,  as  the  soul  had  felt  some  sudden  wound, 
Her  bosom  heaved  above  its  silken  bound. 
He  look'd  again  ;  the  cheek  was  deadly  pale ; 
The  bosom  sank  with  one  long  sigh  profound  ; 
Yet  still  one  lily  hand  upheld  her  veil,     [its  tale. 
And  still  one  press'd  her  heart — that  sigh  told  all 

She  stoop'd,  and  from  the  thicket  pluck'd  a  flower, 

And  fondly  kiss'd,  and  then  with  feeble  hand 

She  laid  it  on  the  footstool  of  the  bower  ; 

Such  was  the  ancient  custom  of  the  land. 

Her  sighs  were  richer  than  the  rose  they  fann'd  ; 

The  breezes  swept  it  to  the  angel's  feet ; 

Yet  even  that  sweet  slight  boon,  'twas  Heaven's 
command, 

He  must  not  touch,  from  her  though  doubly  sweet, 
No  earthly  gift  must  stain  that  hallow'd  judgment- 
seat. 

Still  lay  the  flower  upon  the  splendid  spot, 
The  pilgrim  turn'd  away,  as  smote  with  shame ; 
Her  eye  a  glance  of  self-upbraiding  shot ; 
'Twas  in  his  soul,  a  shaft  of  living  flame. 
Then  bow'd  the  humbled  one,and  bless'd  his  name, 
Cross'd  her  white  arms,  and  slowly  bade  farewell. 
A  sudden  faintness  o'er  the  angel  came ; 
The  voice  rose  sweet  and  solemn  as  a  spell,   [veil. 
She  bow'd  her  face  to  earth,  and  o'er  it  dropp'd  her 

Beauty,  what  art  thou,  that  thy  slightest  gaze 
Can  make  the  spirit  from  its  centre  roll ; 
Its  whole  long  course,  a  sad  and  shadowy  maze  ? 
Thou  midnight  or  thou  noontide  of  the  soul; 
One  glorious  vision  lightning  up  the  whole 


Of  the  wide  world  ;  or  one  deep,  wild  desire, 
By  day  and  night  consuming,  sad  and  sole; 
Till  Hope,  Pride,  Genius,  nay,  till  Love's  own  fire, 
Desert  the  weary  heart,  a  cold  and  mouldering  pyre. 

Enchanted  sleep,  yet  full  of  deadly  dreams  ; 
Companionship  divine,  stern  solitude  ; 
Thou  serpent,  colour'd  with  the  brightest  gleams 
That  e'er  hid  poison,  making  hearts  thy  food; 
Wo  to  the  heart  that  lets  thee  once  intrude, 
Victim  of  visions  that  life's  purpose  steal, 
Till  the  whole  struggling  nature  lies  subdued, 
Bleeding  with  wounds  the  grave  alone  must  heal. 
Proud  angel,  was  it  thine  that  mortal  wo  to  feel  ] 

Still  knelt  the  pilgrim  cover'd  with  her  veil, 
But  all  her  beauty  living  on  his  eye ; 
Still  hyacinth  the  clustering  ringlets  fell 
Wreathing  her  forehead's  polish'd  ivory  ; 
Her  cheek  unseen  still  wore  the  rose-bud's  dye; 
She  sigh'd ;  he  heard  the  sigh  beside  him  swell, 
He  glanced  around — no  Spirit  hover'd  nigh — 
Touch'd  the  fall'n  flower,  and  blushing,  sigh'd 
"  farewell."  [der-peal. 

What  sound  has  stunn'd  his  ear  1     A  sudden  thun- 

He  look'd  on  heaven,  't  was  calm,  but  in  the  vale 
A  creeping  mist  had  girt  the  mountain  round, 
Making  the  golden  minarets  glimmer  pale ; 
It  scaled  the  mount, — the  feeble  day  was  drown'd. 
The  sky  was  with  its  livid  hue  embrown'd, 
But  soon  the  vapours  grew  a  circling  sea, 
Reflecting  lovely  from  its  blue  profound 
Mountain,  and  crimson  cloud,  and  blossom'd  tree; 
Another  heaven  and  earth  in  bright  tranquillity. 

And  on  its  bosom  swam  a  small  chaloupe, 
That  like  a  wild  swan  sported  on  the  tide. 
The  silken  sail  that  canopied  its  poop 
Show'd  one  that  look'd  an  houri  in  her  pride ; 
Anon  came  spurring  up  the  mountain's  side 
A  warrior  Moslem  all  in  glittering  mail, 
That  to  his  country's  doubtful  battle  hied. 
He  saw  the  form,  he  heard  the  tempter's  tale, 
And  answer'd  with  his  own :  for  beauty  will  prevail. 

But  now  in  storm  uprose  the  vast  mirage ; 
Where  sits  she  now  who  tempted  him  to  roam  ? 
How  shall  the  skiff  with  that  wild  sea  engage  ! 
In  vain  the  quivering  helm  is  turn'd  to  home. 
Dark'ning  above  the  piles  of  tumbling  foam, 
Rushes  a  shape  of  wo,  and  through  the  roar 
Peals  in  the  warrior's  ear  a  voice  of  doom. 
Down  plunges  the  chaloupe. — The  storm  is  o'er : 
Heavy  and  slow  the  corpse  rolls  onward  to  the  shore. 

The  angel's  heart  was  smote — but  that  touch'd 
flower,  [sweet, 

Now    opening,  breathed   such  fragrance   subtly 
He  felt  it  strangely  chain  him  to  the  bower. 
He  dared  not  then  that  pilgrim's  eye  to  meet, 
But  gazed  upon  the  small  unsandal'd  feet 
Shining  like  silver  on  the  floor  of  rose  ;  [net 

At  length  he  raised  his  glance  ; — the  veil's  light 
Had  floated  backward  from  her  pencil'd  brows, 
Jer  eye  was  fix'd  on  Heaven,  m  sad,  sublime  repose. 


320 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


A  simple  Syrian  lyre  was  on  her  breast, 
And  on  her  crimson  lip  was  murmuring 
A  village  strain,  that  in  the  day's  sweet  rest 
Is  heard  in  Araby  round  many  a  spring, 
When  down  the  twilight  vales  the  maidens  bring 
The  flocks  to  some  old  patriarchal  well ; 
Or  where  beneath  the  palms  some  desert-king 
Lies,  with  his  tribe  around  him  as  they  fell  ! 
The  thunder  burst  again  ;    a  long,  deep,  crashing 
peal. 

The  angel  heard  it  not ;  as  round  the  range 
Of  the  blue  hill-tops  roar'd  the  volley  on, 
Uttering  its  voice  with  wild,  aerial  change ; 
Now  sinking  in  a  deep  and  distant  moan, 
Like  the  last  echo  of  a  host  o'erthrown  ; 
Then  rushing  with  new  vengeance  down  again, 
Shooting  the  fiery  flash  and  thunder-stone ; 
Till  flamed,  like  funeral  pyres,  the  mountain  chain. 
The  angel  heard  it  not ;  its  wisdom  all  was  vain. 

He  heard  not  even  the  strain,  though  it  had 

changed 

From  the  calm  sweetness  of  the  holy  hymn. 
His  thoughts  from  depth  to  depth  unconscious 

ranged, 

Yet  all  within  was  dizzy,  strange,  and  dim ; 
A  mistseem'd  spreading  between  heaven  and  him ; 
He  sat  absorb'd  in  dreams ; — a  searching  tone 
Came  on  his  ear,  oh  how  her  dark  eyes  swim 
Who  breathed  that  echo  of  a  heart  undone, 
The  song  of  early  joys,  delicious,  dear,  and  gone  ! 

Again  it  changed. — But,  now  'twas  wild  and 
grand,  [trol, 

The  praise  of  hearts  that  scorn  the  world's  con- 
Disdaining  all  but  love's  delicious  band, 
The  chain  of  gold  and  flowers,  the  tie  of  soul. 
Again  strange  paleness  o'er  her  beauty  stole, 
She  glanced  above,  then  stoop'd  her  glowing  eye, 
Blue  as  the  star  that  glitter'd  by  the  pole ; 
One  tear-drop  gleam'd,  she  dash'd  it  quickly  by, 
And  dropp'd  the  lyre,  and  turn'd — as  if  she  turn'd 
to  die. 

The  night-breeze  from  the  mountains  had  begun  ; 
And  as  it  wing'd  among  the  clouds  of  even, 
Where,  like  a  routed  king,  the  Sultan  Sun 
Still  struggled  on  the  fiery  verge  of  heaven ; 
Their  volumes  in  ten  thousand  shapes  were  driven; 
Spreading  away  in  boundless  palace  halls, 
WThose  lights  from  gold  and  emerald  lamps  were 

given ; 

Or  airy  citadels  and  battled  walls ; 
Or  sunk  in  valleys  sweet,  with  silver  waterfalls. 

But,  for  those  sights  of  heaven  the  angel's  heart 
WTas  all  unsettled:  and  a  bitter  sigh 
Burst  from  his  burning  lip,  and  with  a  start 
He  cast  upon  the  earth  his  conscious  eye. 
The  whole  horizon  from  that  summit  high 
Spread  out  in  vision,  from  the  pallid  line 
Where  old  Palmyra's  pomps  in  ruin  lie, 
Gilding  the  Arab  sands,  to  where  supine 
The  western  lustre  tinged  thy  spires,  lost  Palestine  ! 

Yet,  loveliest  of  the  vision  was  the  vale 

That  sloped  beneath  his  own  imperial  bowers ; 


Sheeted  with  colours  like  an  Indian  mail, 
A  tapestry  sweet  of  all  sun-painted  flowers, 
Balsam,  arid  clove,  and  jasmines  scented  showers, 
And  the  red  glory  of  the  Persian  rose, 
Spreading  in  league  on  league  around  the  towers, 
Where,  loved  of  Heaven,  and  hated  of  its  foes, 
The  queen  of  cities  shines,  in  cairn  and  proud  repose. 

And  still  he  gazed — and  saw  not  that  the  eve 
Wras  fading  into  night.     A  sudden  thought 
Struck  to  his  dreaming  heart,  that  made  it  heave  ; 
WTas  he  not  there  in  Paradise] — that  spot, 
Was  it  not  lovely  as  the  lofty  vault 
That  rose  above  him  1     In  his  native  skies, 
Could  he  be  happy  till  his  soul  forgot, 
Oh  !  how  forget,  the  being  whom  his  eyes 
Loved  as  their  light  of  light !     He  heard  a  tempest 
rise — 

Was  it  a  dream  1  the  vale  at  once  was  bare, 
And  o'er  it  hung  a  broad  and  sulphurous  cloud : 
The  soil  grew  red  and  rifted  with  its  glare ; 
Down  to  their  roots  the  mountain  cedars  bow'd  ; 
Along  the  ground  a  rapid  vapour  flow'd, 
Yellow  and  pale,  thick  seam'dwith  streaks  of  flame. 
Before  it  sprang  the  vulture  from  the  shroud ; 
The  lion  bounded  from  it  scared  and  tame  ; 
Behind  it,  darkening  heaven,  the  mighty  whirl- 
wind came. 

Like  a  long  tulip  bed,  across  the  plain 
A  caravan  approach'd  the  evening  well, 
A  long,  deep  mass  of  turban,  plume,  and  vane  ; 
And  lovely  came  its  distant,  solemn  swell 
Of  song,  and  pilgrim-horn,  and  camel-bell. 
The  sandy  ocean  rose  before  their  eye, 
In  thunder  on  their  bending  host  it  fell 
Ten  thousand  lips  sent  up  one  fearful  cry  ;    [lie. 
The  sound  was  still'd  at  once,  beneath  its  wave  they 

But,  two  escaped,  that  up  the  mountain  sprung, 
And  those   the  dead  men's  treasure  downwards 

drew  ; 

One,  with  slow  steps ;  but  beautiful  and  young 
Was  she,whoround  hisneck  her  white  arms  threw. 
Away  the  tomb  of  sand  like  vapour  flew. 
There,  naked  lay  the  costly  caravan, 
A  league  of  piles  of  silk  and  gems  that  threw 
A  rainbow  light,  and  mid  them  stiff  and  wan, 
Stretch'd  by  his  camel's  flank, their  transient  master, 
man. 

The  statelier  wanderer  from  the  height  was  won, 
And  cap  and  sash  soon  gleam'd  with  plunder'd 

gold. 

But,  now  the  desert  rose,  in  pillars  dun, 
Glowing  with  fire  like  iron  in  the  mould,    [roll'd  ; 
That  wings   with  fiery   speed,  recoil'd,  sprang, 
Before  them  waned  the  moon's  ascending  phase, 
The  clouds  above  them  shrank  the  reddening  fold  : 
On  rush'd  the  giant  columns  blaze  on  blaze, 
The  sacrilegious  died,  wrapp'd  in  the  burning  haze. 

The  angel  sat  enthroned  within  a  dome 
Of  alabaster  raised  on  pillars  slight, 
Curtain'd  with  tissues  of  no  earthly  loom ; 
For  spirits  wove  the  web  ofblOBSomi  bright, 
Woof  of  all  flowers  that  drink  the  morning  light, 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


321 


And  with  their  beauty  figured  all  the  stone 
In  characters  of  mystery  and  might, 
A  more  than  mortal  guard  around  the  throne, 
That  in  their  tender  shade  one  glorious  diamond 
shone. 

And  every  bud  round  pedestal  and  plinth, 
As  fell  the  evening,  turn'd  a  living  gem. 
Lighted  its  purple  lamp  the  hyacinth, 
The  dahlia  pour'd  its  thousand-colour'd  gleam, 
A  ruby  torch  the  wondering  eye  might  deem 
Hung  on  the  brow  of  some  night-watching  tower, 
Where  upwards  climb'd  the  broad  magnolia's  stem. 
An  urn  of  lovely  lustre  every  flower, 
Burning  before  the  king  of  that  illumined  bower. 

And  nestling  in  that  arbour's  leafy  twine, 
From  cedar's  top  to  violet's  lowly  bell, 
Were  birds,  now  hush'd,  of  plumage  all  divine, 
That,  as  the  quivering  radiance  on  them  fell, 
Shot  back  such  hues  as  stain  the  orient  shell, 
Touching  the  deep,  green  shades  with  light  from 

eyes 

Jacinth,  and  jet,  and  blazing  carbuncle, 
And  gold-dropt  coronets,  arid  wings  of  dyes 
Bathed  in  the  living  streams  of  their  own  Paradise. 

The  angel  knew  the  warning  of  that  storm  ; 
But  saw  the  shuddering  minstrel's  step  draw  near, 
And  felt  the  whole  deep,  witchery  of  her  form  ; 
Her  sigh  was  music's  echo  to  his  ear  ; 
He  loved — and  what  has  love  to  do  with  fear  ] 
f   Now  night  had  droop'd  on  earth  her  raven  wing, 
But  in  the  arbour  all  was  splendour  clear ; 
And,  like  twin  spirits  in  its  charmed  ring, 

Shone  that  sweet  child   of  earth  and   that   star- 

diadem'd  king. 

For,  whether  'twas  the  light's  unusual  glow, 
Or  that  some  dazzling  change  had  on  her  come; 
Her  look,  though  lovely  still,  was  loftier  now, 
Her  tender  cheek  was  flush' d  with  brighter  bloom  ; 
Yet  ia  her  azure  eyebeam  gather'd  gloom, 
Like  evening's  clouds  across  its  own  blue  star, 
Then  would  a  sudden  flash  its  depths  illume; 
And  wore  she  but  the  wing  and  gemm'd  tiar, 

She  seem'd  instinct  with  might  to  make  the  clouds 

her  car. 

She  slowly  raised  her  arm,  that,  bright  as  snow, 
Gleam'd  like  a  rising  meteor  through  the  air, 
Shedding  white  lustre  on  her  turban'd  brow; 
And  gazed  on  heaven,  as  wrapt  in  solemn  prayer  ; 
She  still  look'd  woman,  yet  more  proudly  fair ; 
And  as  she  stood  and  pointed  to  the  sky, 
With  that  fix'd  look  of  loveliness  and  care, 
The  angel  thought,  and  check'd  it  with  a  sigh, 

He  saw  some  spirit  fallen  from  immortality. 

The  silent  prayer  was  done  ;  and  now  she  moved 
Faint  to  his  footstool,  and,  upon  her  knee, 
Besought  her  lord,  if  in  his  heaven  they  loved, 
That,  as  she  never  more  his  face  must  see, 
She  there  might  pledge  her  heart's  fidelity. 
Then  turn'd,  and  pluck'd  a  cluster  from  the  vine, 
And  o'er  a  chalice  waved  it,  with  a  sigh, 
Then  stoop'd  the  crystal  cup  before  the  shrine. 
In  wrath  the  angel  rose — the  guilty  draught  was 
wine  ! 

41 


She  stood  ;  she  shrank  ;  she  totter'd.     Down  he 

sprang, 

Clasp'd  with  one  hand  her  waist,  with  one  upheld 
The  vase — his  ears  with  giddy  murmurs  rang ; 
His  eye  upon  her  dying  cheek  was  spell'd ; 
Up  to  the  brim  the  draught  of  evil  swell'd 
Like  liquid  rose,  its  odour  touch'd  his  brain ; 
He  knew  his  ruin,  but  his  soul  was  quell'd  ; 
He  shudder'd — gazed  upon  her  cheek  again, 
Press'd  her  pale  lip,  and  to  the  last  that  cup  did  drain. 

The  enchantress  smiled,  as  still  in  some  sweet 

dream, 

Then  waken'd  in  a  long,  delicious  sigh, 
And  on  the  bonding  spirit  fix'd  the  beam 
Of  her  deep,  dewy,  melancholy  eye. 
The  undone  angel  gave  no  more  reply 
Than  hiding  his  pale  forehead  in  the  hair 
That  floated  on  her  neck  of  ivory, 
And  breathless  pressing,  with  her  ringlets  fair, 
From  his  bright  eyes  the  tears  of  passion  and  despair. 

The  heaven  was  one  blue  cope,  inlaid  with  gems 
Thick  as  the  concave  of  a  diamond  mine, 
But  from  the  north  now  fly  pale,  phosphor  beams 
That  o'er  the  mount  their  quivering  net  entwine  ; 
The  smallest  stars  through  that  sweet  lustre  shine; 
Then,  like  a  routed  host,  its  streamers  fly  : 
Then,  from  the  moony  horizontal  line 
A  surge  of  sudden  glory  floods  the  sky, 
Ocean  of  purple  waves,  and  melted  lazuli. 

But  wilder  wonder  smote  their  shrinking  eyes: 
A  vapour  plunged  upon  the  vale  from  heaven, 
Then,  darkly  gathering,  tower'd  of  mountain  size; 
From  its  high  crater  column'd  smokes  were  driven; 
It  heaved  within,  as  if  pent  flames  had  striven 
With  mighty  winds  to  burst  their  prison  hold, 
Till  all  the  cloud-volcano's  bulk  was  riven 
With  angry  light,  that  seem'd  in  cataracts  roll'd, 
Silver,  and  sanguine  steel,  and  streams  of  molten 
gold. 

Then  echoed  on  the  winds  a  hollow  roar, 
An  earthquake  groan,  that  told  convulsion  near  : 
Out  rush'd  the  burden  of  its  burning  core, 
Myriads  of  fiery  globes,  as  day-light  clear. 
The  sky  was  fill'd  with  flashing  sphere  on  sphere, 
Shooting  straight  upward  to  the  zenith's  crown. 
The  stars  were  blasted  in  that  splendour  drear, 
The  land  beneath  in  wild  distinctness  shone, 
From  Syria's  yellow  sands  to  Libanus'  summit- 
stone. 

The  storm  is  on  the  embattled  clouds  receding, 
The  purple  streamers  wander  pale  and  thin, 
But  o'er  the  pole  a  fiercer  flame  is  spreading, 
Wheel  within  wheel  of  fire,  and  far  within 
Revolves  a  stooping  splendour  crystalline. 
A  throne ; — -but  who  the  sitter  on  that  throne  ! 
The  angel  knew  the  punisher  of  sin  ; 
Check'd  on  his  lip  the  self-upbraiding  groan, 
And  clasp'd  his  dying  love,  and  joy'd  to  be  undone. 

And  once,  'twas  but  a  moment,  on  her  cheek 
He  gave  a  glance,  then  sank  his  hurried  eye, 
And  press'd  it  closer  on  her  dazzling  neck. 


322 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


Yet,  even  in  that  swift  gaze,  he  could  espy 
A  look  that  made  his  heart's  blood  backwards  fly. 
Was  it  a  dream  1   there  echoed  in  his  ear 
A  stinging  tone — a  laugh  of  mockery  ! 
It  was  a  dream — it  must  be.     Oh  !   that  fear, 
When  the  heart  longs  to  know,  what  it  is  death  to 
hear. 

He  glanced  again — her  eye  was  upward  still, 
Fix'd  on  the  stooping  of  that  burning  car  ; 
But  through  his  bosom  shot  an  arrowy  thrill, 
To  see  its  solemn,  stern,  unearthly  glare; 
She  stood  a  statue  of  sublime  despair, 
But  on  her  lip  sat  scorn. — His  spirit  froze, — 
His  footstep  reel'd, — his  wan  lip  gasp'd  for  air; 
She  felt  his  throb, — and  o'er  him  stoop'd  with 

brows 
As  evening  sweet,  and  kiss'd  hirn  with  a  lip  of  rose. 

Again  she  was  all  beauty,  and  they  stood 
Still  fonder  clasp'd,  and  gazing  with  the  eve 
OF  famine  gazing  on  the  poison'd  food 
That  it  must  feed  on,  or  abstaining  die. 
There  was  between  them  now  nor  tear  nor  sigh ; 
Theirs  was  the  deep  communion  of  the  soul ; 
Passion's  absorbing,  bitter  luxury  ; 
What  was  to  them  or  heaven  or  earth,  the  whole 
Was  in  that  fatal  spot,  where  they  stood  sad,  and 
sole. 

The  minstrel  first  shook  off  the  silent  trance  ; 
And  in  a  voice  sweet  as  the  murmuring 
Of  summer  streams  beneath  the  moonlight's  glance, 
Besought  the  desperate  one  to  spread  the  wing 
Beyond  the  power  of  his  vindictive  king. 
Slave  to  her  slightest  word,  he  raised  his  plume, 
For  life  or  death,  he  reck'd  not  which,  to  spring ; 
Nay,  to  confront  the  thunder  and  the  gloom. 
She  wildly  kiss'd  his  hand,  and  sank,  as  in  a  tomb. 

The  angel  sooth'd  her,  "  No  !  let  justice  wreak 
Its  wrath  upon  them  both,  or  him  alone." 
A  flush  of  love's  pure  crimson  lit  her  cheek; 
She  whisper'd,  and  his  stoop'd  ear  drank  the  tone 
With  mad  delight:   "0  there  is  one  way,  one, 
To  save  us  both.     Are  there  not  mighty  words, 
Graved  on  the  magnet-throne  where  Solomon 
Sits  ever  guarded  by  the  genii  swords,   [Lord's  1" 
To  give  thy  servant  wings,  like  her"  resplendent 

This  was  the  sin  of  sins  !     The  first,  last  crime, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  unnamed,  unnameable ; 
T!ii*  from  his  throne  of  light,  before  all  time, 
Had  smitten  Eblis,  brightest,  first  that  fell. 
He  started  back. — «  What  urged  him  to  rebel  1 
What  led  that  soft  seducer  to  his  bower? 
Could  she  have  laid  upon  his  soul  that  spell, 
Young,  lovely,  fond;  yet  but  an  earthly  flower?" — 
But  for  that  fatal  cup,  he  had  been  free  that  hour. 

But  still  its  draught  was  fever  in  his  blood. 
He  caught  the  upward,  humble,  weeping  gleam 
Of  woman's  eye,  by  passion  all  subdued  ; 
He  sigh'd,  and  at  his  sigh  he  saw  it  beam  : 
Oh  !   the  sweet  frenzy  of  the  lover's  dream  ! 
A  moment's  lingering,  and  they  both  must  die. 
The  lightning  round  them  shot  a  broader  stream  ; 
He  felt  her  clasp  his  feet  in  agony  ;  [repty  ! 

He  spoke  the  "Words  of  might," — the  thunder  gave 


Away  !  away  !  the  sky  is  one  black  cloud, 
Shooting  its  lightnings  down  in  spire  on  spire. 
Around  the  mount  its  canopy  is  bow'd, 
A  fiery  vault  upraised  on  pillar'd  fire; 
The  stars  like  lamps  along  its  roof  expire  ; 
But  through  its  centre  bursts  an  orb  of  rays ; 
The  angel  knew  the  Avenger  in  his  ire  ! 
The  hill-top  smoked  beneath  the  stooping  blaze, 
The  culprits  dared  not  there  their  guilty  glancesraise. 

And  words  were  utter'd  from  that  whirling  sphere, 
That  mortal  sense  might  never  hear  and  live. 
They  pierced  like  arrows  through  the  angel's  ear ; 
He  bow'd  his  head  ;  'twas  vain  to  fly  or  strive. 
Down  comes  the  final  wrath  :  the  thunders  give 
The  doubled  peal, — the  rains  in  cataracts  sweep, 
Broad  bars  of  fire  the  sheeted  deluge  rive  ; 
The  mountain  summits  to  the  valley  leap, 
Pavilion,  garden,  grove,  smoke  up  one  ruin'd  heap. 

The  storm  stands  still !  a  moment's  pa  use  of  terror! 
All  dungeon-dark  ! — Again  the  lightnings  yawn, 
Showing  the  earth  as  in  a  quivering  mirror. 
The  prostrate  angel  felt  but  that  the  one, 
Whose  love  had  lost  him  Paradise,  was  gone : 
He  dared  not  see  her  corpse  ! — he  closed  his  eyes ; 
A  voice  burst  o'er  him,  solemn  as  the  tone 
Of  the  last  trump, — he  glanced  upon  the  skies, 
He  saw,  what  shook  his  soul  with  terror,  shame, 
surprise. 

The  minstrel  stood  before  him ;  two  broad  plumes 
Spread  from  her  shoulders  on  the  burden'd  air ; 
Her  face  was  glorious  still,  but  love's  young  blooms 
Had  vanish'd  for  the  hue  of  bold  despair  ; 
A  fiery  circle  crown'd  her  sable  hair ; 
And,  as  she  look'd  upon  her  prostrate  prize, 
Her  eyeballs  shot  around  a  meteor  glare, 
Her  form  tower'd  up  at  once  to  giant  size ; 
'Twas  Eblis  !  king  of  Hell's  relentless  sovereign- 
ties. 

The  tempter  spoke — "  Spirit,  thou  mightst  have 

stood, 

But  thou  hast  fallen  a  weak  and  willing  slave. 
Now  were  thy  feeble  heart  our  serpents'  food, 
Thy  bed  our  burning  ocean's  sleepless  wave, 
But  haughty  Heaven  controls  the  power  it  gave. 
Yet  art  thou  doom'd  to  wander  from  thy  sphere, 
Till  the  last  trumpet  reaches  to  the  grave ; 
Till  the  sun  rolls  the  grand  concluding  year  ; 
Till  earth  is  Paradise  ;  then  shall  thy  crime  be 

clear. 

The  angel  listen'd,  risen  upon  one  knee, 
Resolved  to  hear  the  deadliest  undisrnay'd. 
His  star-dropt  plume  hung  round  him  droopingly, 
His  brow,  like  marble,  on  his  hand  was  stay'd. 
Still  through  the  auburn  locks'  o'erhanging  shade 
His  face  shone  beautiful ;  he  heard  his  ban  ; 
Then  came  the  words  of  mercy,  sternly  said  ; 
He  plunged  within  his  hands  his  visage  wan. 
And  the  first  wild,  sweet  tears  from  his  heart- 
pulses  ran. 

The  giant  grasp'd  him  as%he  fell  to  earth, 
And  his  black  vanes  upon  the  air  were  flung, 
A  tabernacle  dark  ; — and  shouts  of  mirth 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


323 


Mingled  with  shriekings   through   the  tempest 

swung ; 

His  arm  around  the  fainting  angel  clung. 
Then  on  the  clouds  he  darted  with  a  groan ; 
A  moment  o'er  the  mount  of  ruin  hung,     [cone, 
Then  burst  through  space,  like  the  red  comet's 
Leaving  his  track  on  heaven  a  burning,  endless  zone. 


A  SCENE  FROM  CATILINE. 

Catiline.  FLITS-G  on  my  pillow !  does  the  last 

night's  wine 
Perplex  me  still  ]     Its  words  are  wild  and  bold. 

(Reads)  "  Noble  Catiline  !  where  yon  tread,  the  earth 
is  hollow,  though  it  gives  no  sound.  There  is  a 
storm  gathering,  though  there  are  no  clouds  in  the 
sky.  Rome  is  desperate  ;  three  hundred  patricians 
have  sworn  to  do  their  duty;  and  what  three  hun- 
dred have  sworn,  thirty  thousand  will  make  good." 

Why,  half  the  number  now  might  sack  the  city, 
With  all  its  knights,  before  a  spear  could  come 
From  Ostia  to  their  succour. — 'Twere  a  deed  ! — 

(Reads)  <l  You  have  heen  betrayed  by  the  senate,  be- 
trayed by  the  consuls,  and  betrayed  by  the  people. 
You  are  a  Roman,  can  you  suffer  ch'iins  ?  You  are 
a  soldier,  can  you  submit  to  shame?  You  are  a 
man;  will  you  be  ruined,  trampled  on,  disdained?" 
(Fling's  away  the  paper.) 

Disdain' df    They're   in  the  right.— It  tells  the 
I  am  a  scofF  and  shame — a  public  prate,    [truth — 
There's-one  way  left :  (draws  a  poniard}  this  dag- 
ger in  my  heart — 

The  quickest  cure!  .  .  But 'tis  the  coward's  cure; 
And  what  shall  heal  the  dearer  part  of  me, 
My  reputation  ?     What  shield's  for  my  name, 
When  I  shall  fling  it,  like  my  corpse,  to  those 
Who  dared  not  touch  it  living,  for  their  lives  ] 
So,  there  lies  satisfaction ;  and  my  veins 
Must  weep — for  nothing !  when  my  enemies 
Might  be  compelled  to  buy  them  drop  by  drop. 
No  !  by  the  Thunderer,  they  shall  pay  their  price. 
To  die!  in  days  when  helms  are  burnishing; 
When  heaven  and  earth  are  ripening  for  a  change ; 
And  die  by  my  own  hand  ! — Give  up  the  game 
Before  the  dice  are  thrown  ! — Clamour  for  chains, 
Before  the  stirring  trumpet  sounds  the  charge ! — 
Bind  up  my  limbs — a  voluntary  mark 
For  the  world's  enginery,  the  ruffian  gibe, 
The  false  friend's  sneer,  the  spurn  of  the  safe  foe, 
The  sickly,  sour  hypocrisy,  that  loves 
To  find  a  wretch  to  make  its  moral  of, 
Crushes  the  fallen,  and  calls  it  Charity  ! — 
Sleep  in  your  sheath  !     [He  puts  up  the  poniard. 

How  could  my  mind  give  place 
To  thoughts  so  desperate,  rash,  and  mutinous  1 
Fate  governs  all  things.    Madman!  would  I  give 
Joy  to  my  enemies,  sorrow  to  my  friends, — 
Shut  up  the  gate  of  hope  upon  myself1? 
My  sword   may  thrive! — Dreams,  dreams!    my 

mind's  as  full 

Of  vapourish  fantasies  as  a  sick  girl's  ! 
I  will  abandon  Rome, — give  back  her  scorn 
With  tenfold  scorn:  break  up  all  league  with  her, — 
All  memories.    I  will  not  breathe  her  air, 


Nor  warm  me  with  her  fire,  nor  let  my  bones 
Mix  with  her  sepulchres.     The  oath  is  sworn. 
[Aurelia  enters  with  papers. 

Aurelia.  What  answers  for  this  pile  of  bills, 
my  lord  1 

Catiline.  Who  can  have  sent  them  here  ] 

Aurelia.  Your  creditors ! 
As  if  some  demon  woke  them  all  at  once, 
These  have  been  crowding  on  me  since  the  morn. 
Here,  Caius  Curtius  claims  the  prompt  discharge 
Of  his  half  million  sesterces ;  besides 
The  interest  on  your  bond,  ten  thousand  more. 
Six  thousand  for  your  Tyrian  canopy; 
Here,  for  your  Persian  horses — your  trireme: 
Here,  debt  on  debt.  Will  you  discharge  them  now  ? 

Catiline.  I'll  think  on  it. 

Aurelia.  It  must  be  now  ;  this  day .' 
Or,  by  to-morrow,  we  shall  have  no  home. 

Catiline.  'Twill  soon  be  all  the  same. 

Aurelia.  We  are  undone  ! 
'My  gold,  my  father's  presents,  jewels,  rings, — 
All,  to  the  baubles  on  my  neck,  are  gone. 
The  consulship  might  have  upheld  us  still ; 
But  now, — we  must  go  down. 

Catiline.  Aurelia  ! — wife  ! 
All  will  be  well :  but  hear  me — stay — a  little; 
I  had  intended  to  consult  with  you — 
On — our  departure — from — the — city. 

Aurelia,  indignantly  and  surprised.  Rome1? 

Cat  time.   Even  so,  fair  wife!   we  must  leave 
Rome. 

Aurelia.  Let  me  look  on  you  ;  are  you  Catiline] 

Catiline. — I  know  not  what  I  am — we  must 
be  gone ! 

Aurelia.  Madness  ! 

Catiline,  wildly.  Not  yet — not  yet ! 

Aurelia.  Let  them  take  all '! 

Catiline.  The  gods  will  have  it  so  ! 

Aurelia.  Seize  on  your  house  1 

Catiline.  Seize  my  last  sesterce !     Let  them 

have  their  will. 

We  must  endure.    Ay,  ransack — ruin  all ; 
Tear  up  my  father's  grave, — tear  out  my  heart. 
Wife  !  the  world's  wide, — Can  we  not  dig  or  beg] 
Can  we  not  find  on  earth  a  den,  or  tomb? 

Aurelia.   Before  I  stir,  they  shall  hew  off  my 
hands. 

Catiline.  What's  to  be  done  1 

Aurelia.  Hear  me,  Lord  Catiline  : 
The  day  we  wedded, — 'tis  but  three  short  years ! 
You  were  the  first  patrician  here, — and  I 
Was  Marius'  daughter  !  There  was  not  in  Rome 
An  eye,  however  haughty,  but  would  sink 
When  /  turn'd  on  it :  when  I  pass'd  the  streets 
My  chariot  wheel  was  follow'd  by  a  host 
Of  your  chief  senators ;  as  if  their  gaze 
Beheld  an  empress  on  its  golden  round  ; 
An  earthly  providence ! 

Catiline.  'Twas  so ! — 'twas  so  ! 
But  it  is  vanish'd — gone. 

Aurelia.  By  yon  bright  sun  ! 
That  day  shall  come  again :  or,  in  its  place, 
One  that  shall  be  an  era  to  the  world  ! 

Catiline,  eagerly.  What's  in  your  thoughts'? 

Aurelia.  Our  high  and  hurried  life 


324 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


Has  left  us  strangers  to  each  other's  souls : 
But  now  we  think  alike.  You  have  a  sword, — 
Have  had  a  famous  name  i'  the  legions  ! 
Catiline.  Hush! 
Aurelia.  Have  the  walls  ears  1     Great  Jove  !  I 

wish  they  had  ; 

And  tongues  too,  to  hear  witness  to  my  oath, 
And  tell  it  to  all  Rome. 

Catil-ne.  Would  you  destroy  ] 
Aurelia.  Were  I  a  thunderbolt ! 

Rome's  ship  is  rotten  : 

Has  she  not  cast  you  out ;  and  would  you  sink 
With  her,  when  she  can  give  you  no  gain  else 
Of  her  fierce  fellowship?     Who'd  seek  the  chain 
That  link'd  him  to  his  mortal  enemy] 
Who'd  face  the  pestilence  in  his  foe's  house  ] 
Who,  when  the  poisoner  drinks  by  chance  the  cup, 
That  was  to  be  his  death,  would  squeeze  the  dregs 
To  find  a  drop  to  bear  him  company  7 

Catiline,  shrinking.  It  will  not  come  to  this. 
Aurelia,  haughtily,  Shall  we  be  dragg'd, 
A  show  to  all  the  city  rabble ; — robb'd, — 
Down  to  the  very  mantle  on  our  backs, — 
A  pair  of  branded  beggars !     Doubtless  Cicero — 
Catiline.    Cursed    be   the    ground   he   treads! 

Name  him  no  more. 

Aurelia.  Doubtless  /ie'll  see  us  to  tlie  city  gates; 
'Twill  be  the  least  respect  that  he  can  pay 
To  his  fallen  rival.     Do  you  hear,  my  lord  ? 
Deaf  as  the  rock   (aside.)     With  all  his  lictors 

shouting, 

"  Room  for  the  noble  vagrants  ;  all  caps  off 
For  Catiline !  for  him  that  would  be  consul." 
Catiline,  turning  away.    Thus  to  be,  like  the 

scorpion,  ring'd  with  fire, 
Till  I  sting  mine  own  heart !  (aside.}     There  is 

no  hope ! 
Aurelia.  One  hope-there  is,  worth  all  the  rest — 

revenge ! 

The  time  is  harass'd,  poor,  and  discontent ; 
Your  spirit  practised,  keen,  and  desperate, — 
The  senate  full  of  feuds, — the  city  vex'd 
With  petty  tyranny, — the  legions  wrong' d — 
Catiline,  scornfully.     Yet,  who    has   stirr'd] 

Woman,  you  paint  the  air 
With  passion's  pencil. 

Aurelia.  Were  my  will  a  sword  ! 

Catiline.    Hear  me,  bold   heart !     The  whole 

gross  blood  of  Rome 

Could  not  atone  my  wrongs !  I'm  soul-shrunk,  sick, 
Weary  of  man!     And  now  my  mind  is  fix'd 
For  Lybia :  there  to  make  companionship 
Rather  of  bear  and  tiger, — of  the  snake, — 
The  lion  in  his  hunger, — than  of  man  ! 

Aurelia.   I  had  a  father  once,  who  would  have 
Rome  in  the  Tiber  for  an  angry  look  !      [plunged 
You  saw  our  entrance  from  the  Gaulish  war, 
When  Sylla  fled  ? 

Catiline.  My  legion  was  in  Spain. 
Aurelia.  We  swept  through  Italy,  a  flood  of 
A  living  lava,  rolling  straight  on  Rome.          [fire, 
For  days,  before  we  reach'd  it,  the  whole  road 
Was  throng'd  with  suppliants — tribunes,  consulars, 
The  mightiest  names  o'  the  state.   Could  gold  have 
bribed, 


We  might  have  pitched  our  tents  and  slept  on  gold. 
But  we  had  work  to  do, — our  swords  were  thirsty. 
We  enter'd  Rome,  as  conquerors,  in  arms ; 
I  by  my  father's  side,  cuirass'd  and  helrn'd, 
Bellona  beside  Mars. 

Catiline,  with  coldness.    The  world  was  yours. 

Aurelia.  Rome  was  all  eyes ;   the  ancient  tot- 

ter'd  forth ; 

The  cripple  propp'd  his  limbs  beside  the  wall ; 
The  dying  left  his  bed  to  look  and  die. 
The  way  before  us  was  a  sea  of  heads ; 
The  way  behind  a  torrent  of  brown  spears : 
So,  on  we  rode,  in  fierce  and  funeral  pomp, 
Through  the  long,  living  streets,  that  sank  in  gloom, 
As  we,  like  Pluto  and  Proserpina, 
Enthroned,  rode  on,  like  twofold  destiny! 

Catiline,  sternly,  interrupting  her.   Those  tri- 
umphs are  but  gewgaws.    All  the  earth 
What  is  it?   Dust  and  smoke.   I've  done  with  life! 

Aurelia,  coming  closer,  and  looking  steadily 
upon  him.  Before  that  eve — one  hundred  senators, 
And  fifteen  hundred  knights,  had  paid — in  blood, 
The  price  of  taunts,  and  treachery,  and  rebellion! 
Were  my  tongue  thunder — I  would  cry,  Revenge  ! 

Catiline,  in  sudden  wildness.  No  more  of  this ! 

In,  to  your  chamber,  wife  ! 
There  is  a  whirling  lightness  in  my  brain 
That  will  not  now  bear  questioning. — Away  ! 

[As  Aurelia  moves  slowly  towards  the  door. 
Where  are   our  veterans  now]     Look  on  these* 
I  cannot  turn  their  tissues  into  life.  [walls ; 

Where  are  our  revenues — our  chosen  friends] 
Are  we  not  beggars?    Where  have  beggars  friends] 
I  see  no  swords  and  bucklers  on  these  floors ! 
I  shake  the  state  !    I — What  have  I  on  earth 
But  these  two  hands]    Must  I  not  dig  or  starve? — 
Come  back !     I  had  forgot.     My  memory  dies, 
I  think,  by  the  hour.    Who  sups  with  us  to-night] 
Let  all  be  of  the  rarest, — spare  no  cost. — 
If 'tis  our  last; — it  may  be — let  us  sink 
In  sumptuous  ruin,  with  wonderers  round  us,  wife! 
Our  funeral  pile  shall  send  up  amber  smokes; 
We'll  burn  in  myrrh,  or — blood  !  [She  goes. 

I  feel  a  nameless  pressure  on  my  brow, 
As  if  the  heavens  were  thick  with  sudden  gloo;r. ; 
A  shapeless  consciousness,  as  if  some  blow 
Were  hanging  o'er  my  head.  They  say  such  thoughts 
Partake  of  prophecy.   [He  stands  at  the  casement. 
This  air  is  living  sweetness.     Golden  sun, 
Shall  I  be  like  thee  yet  1    The  cloqds  have  past — 
And,  like  some  mighty  victor,  he  returns 
To  his  red  city  in  the  west,  that  now 
Spreads  all  her  gates,  and  lights  her  torches  up, 
In  triumph  for  her  glorious  conqueror. 


ASTROLOGY. 

LOOK  there !  the  hour  is  written  in  the  sky. 
Jove  rushes  down  on  Saturn, — 'tis  the  sign 
Of  war  throughout  the  nations.     In  the  east 
The  Crescent  sickens ; — and  the  purple  star, 
Perseus,  the  Ionian's  love,  lifts  up  his  crest, 
And  o'er  her  stands  exulting  ! 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


325 


JACOB'S  DREAM. 

FROM  A  PICTURE  BY  WASHINGTON  ALLSTON,  A.  R.  A. 

TUB  sun  was  sinking  on  the  mountain  zone 
That  guards  thy  vales  of  beauty,  Palestine  ! 
And  lovely  from  the  desert  rose  the  moon, 
Yet  lingering  on  the  horizon's  purple  line, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  o'er  its  earthly  shrine. 
Up  Padan-aram's  height  abrupt  arid  bare 
A  pilgrim  toil'd,  and  oft  on  day's  decline 
Look'd  pale,  then  paused  for  eve's  delicious  air, 
The  summit  gain'd,  he  knelt,  and  breathed  his 
evening  prayer. 

He  spread  his  cloak  and  slumber' d — darkness  fell 
Upon  the  twilight  hills ;  a  sudden  sound 
Of  silver  trumpets  o'er  him  seem'd  to  swell ; 
Clouds  heavy  with  the  tempest  gather'd  round  ; 
Yet  was  the  whirlwind  in  its  caverns  bound ; 
Still  deeper  roll'd  the  darkness  from  on  high, 
Gigantic  volume  upon  volume  wound  ; 
Above,  a  pillar  shooting  to  the  sky, 
Below,  a  mighty  sea,  that  spread  incessantly. 

Voices  are  heard — a  choir  of  golden  strings, 
Low  winds,  whose  breath  is  loaded  with  the  rose  ; 
Then  chariot-wheels — the  nearer  rush  of  wings ; 
Pale  lightning  round  the  dark  pavilion  glows, 
It  thunders — the  resplendent  gates  unclose; 
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance,  on  height  o'er  height, 
Rise  fiery  waving  wings,  and  star-crown'd  brows, 
Millions  on  millions,  brighter  and  more  bright, 
Till  all  is  lost  in  one  supreme,  unmingled  light. 

But,  two  beside  the  sleeping  pilgrim  stand, 
Like  cherub  kings,  with  lifted,  mighty  plume, 
Fix'd,  sunbright  eyes,  and  looks  of  high  command  : 
They  tell  the  patriarch  of  his  glorious  doom  ; 
Fattier  of  countless  myriads  that  shall  come, 
Sweeping  the  land  like  billows  of  the  sea, 
Bright  as  the  stars  of  heaven  from  twilight's  gloom, 
Till  He  is  given  whom  angels  long  to  see, 
And  Israel's  splendid  line  is  crown'd  with  Deity. 


AN  AURORA   BOREALIS. 

— LAST  night  I  could  not  rest:  the  chamber's  heat, 
Or  some  wild  thoughts — the  folly  of  the  day 
Banish'd  my  sleep  :   So,  in  the  garden  air, 
I  gazed  upon  the  comet,  that  then  shone 
In  midnight  glory,  dimming  all  the  stars. 
At  once  a  crimson  blaze,  that  made  it  pale, 
Flooded  the  north.     I  turn'd,  and  saw  in  heaven 
Two  mighty  armies !     From  the  zenith  star, 
Down  to  the  earth,  legions  in  line  and  orb, 
Squadron  and  square,  like  earthly  marshalry. 
Anon,  as  if  a  sudden  trumpet  spoke, 
Banners  of  gold  and  purple  were  flung  out; 
Fire-crested  leaders  swept  along  the  lines ; 
And  both  the  gorgeous  depths,  like  meeting  seas, 
Roll'd  to  wild  battle.     Then,  they  breathed  awhile, 
Leaving  the  space  between  a  sheet  of  gore, 
Strew'd  with  torn  standards,  corpses,  and  crash'd 
spears : 


But  soon  upon  the  horizon's  belt  uprose, 
Moon-like,  or  richer, — like  the  rising  morn, 
A  bulwark'd  city. 

—  Rome  1 

—  Both  armies  joined, 

And  like  a  deluge,  rush'd  against  the  walls 
One  chieftain  led  both  armies  to  the  storm, 
Till  the  proud  capitol  in  embers  fell, 
And  heaven  was  all  on  fire. 


REBELLION. 

I  HAD  a  vision  :  evening  sat  in  gold 
Upon  the  bosom  of  a  boundless  plain, 
Cover'd  with  beauty  ; — garden,  field,  and  fold, 
Studding  the  billowy  sweep  of  ripening  grain, 
Like  islands  in  the  purple  summer  main. 
And  temples  of  pure  marble  met  the  sun, 
That  tinged  their  white  shafts  with  a  golden  stain  ; 
And  sounds  of  rustic  joy,  and  labour  done, 
Hailow'd  the  lovely  hour,  until  her  pomp  was  gone. 

The  plain  was  hush'd  in  twilight,  as  a  child 
Slumbers  beneath  its  slow  drawn  canopy  ; 
But  sudden  tramplings  came,  and  voices  wild, 
And  tossings  of  rude  weapons  caught  the  eye; 
And  on  the  hills,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
Burst  sanguine  fires,  and  ever  and  anon 
To  the  clash'd  spears  the  horn  gave  fierce  reply ; 
And  round  their  beacons  trooping  thousandsshone, 
Then  sank,  like  evil  things,  and  all  was  dark  and 
lone. 

'Twas  midnight;  there  was  wrath  in  that  wild 

heaven  : 

Earth  was  sepulchral  dark.     At  once  a  roar 
Peal'd  round  the  mountain  tops,  like  ocean  driven 
Before  the  thunders  on  the  eternal  shore  : 
Down  rush'd,  as  if  a  sudden  earthquake  tore 
The  bowels  of  the  hills — a  flood  of  fire  : 
Like  lava,  mingled  spears  and  torches  pour, 
The  plain  is  deluged,  higher  still  and  higher 
Swell  blood  and  flame,  till  all  is  like  one  mighty  pyre. 

'Twas  dawa,  and  still  the  black  and  bloody  smoke 
Roll'd  o'er  the  champaign  like  a  vault  of  stone  : 
But  as  the  sun's  slow  wheels  the  barrier  broke, 
He  lit  the  image  of  a  fearful  one, 
Throned  in  the  central  massacre,  alone — 
An  iron  diadem  upon  his  brow, 
A  naked  lance  beside  him,  that  yet  shone 
Purple  and  warm  with  gore,  and  crouching  low, 
All  men  in  one  huge  chain,  alike  the  friend  and  foe. 

The  land  around  him,  in  that  sickly  light, 
Show'd  like  the  upturning  of  a  mighty  grave ; 
Strewn  with  crush'd  monuments,  and  remnants 

white 

Of  man  ;  all  loneliness,  but  when  some  slave 
With  faint,  fond  hand  the  hurried  burial  gave, 
Then  died.     The  despot  sat  upon  his  throne, 
Scoffing  to  see  the  stubborn  traitors  wave 
At  his  least  breath.  The  good  and  brave  were  gone 
To  exile  or  the  tomb.  Their  country's  life  was  done! 
2E 


326 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


THE  ALHAMBRA. 

PALACE  of  beauty  !  where  the  Moorish  lord, 
King  of  the  bow,  the  bridle,  and  the  sword, 
Sat  like  a  genie  in  the  diamond's  blaze. 
Oh !  to  have  seen  thee  in  the  ancient  days, 
When  at  thy  morning  gates  the  coursers  stood, 
The  "  thousand,"  milk-white,  Yemen's  fiery  blood, 
In  pearl  and  ruby  harness'd  for  the  king  : 
And  through  thy  portals  pour'd  the  gorgeous  flood 
Of  jewell'd  Sheik  and  emir,  hastening, 
Before  the  sky  the  dawning  purple  show'd, 
Their  turbans  at  the  caliph's  feet  to  fling. 
Lovely  thy  morn. — thy  evening  lovelier  still 
When  at  the  waking  of  the  first  blue  star 
That  trembled  on  the  Atalaya  hill, 
The  splendours  of  the  trumpet's  voice  arose, 
Brilliant  and  bold,  and  yet  no  sound  of  war; 
But  summoning  thy  ber.uty  from  repose, 
The  shaded,slumber  of  the  burning  noon. 
Then  in  the  slant  sun  all  thy  fountains  shone, 
Shooting  the  sparkling  column  from  the  vase 
Of  crystal  cool,  and  falling  in  a  haze 
Of  rainbow  hues  on  floors  of  porphyry, 
And  the  rich  bordering  beds  of  every  bloom 
'That  breathes  to  African  or  Indian  sky, 
Carnation,  tuberose,  thick  anemone  ; 
Then  was  the  harping  of  the  minstrels  heard, 
In  the  deep  arbours,  or  the  regal  hall, 
Hushing  the  tumult  of  the  festival, 
When  the  pale  bard  his  kindling  eyeball  rear'd, 
And  told  of  eastern  glories,  silken  hosts, 
Tower'd  elephants,  and  chiefs  in  topaz  arrn'd: 
Or  of  the  myriads  from  the  cloudy  coasts 
Of  the  far  western  sea,  the  sons  of  blood, 
The  iron  men  of  tournament  and  feud, 
That  round  the  bulwarks  of  their  fathers  swarm 'd, 
Doom'd  by  the  Moslem  scimitar  to  fall ; 
Till  the  Red  Cross  was  hurl'd  from  Salem's  wall. 
Where  are  thy  pomps,  Alhambra,  earthly  sun 
That  had  no  rival,  and  no  second  ? — gone  ! 
Thy  glory  down  the  arch  of  time  has  roll'd, 
Like  the  great  day-star  to  the  ocean  dim, 
The  billows  of  the  ages  o'er  thee  swim, 
Gloomy  and  fathomless ;  thy  tale  is  told. 
Where  is  thy  horn  of  battle  '?  that  but  blown 
Brought  every  chief  of  Afric  from  his  throne  ; 
Brought  every  spear  of  Afric  from  the  wall ; 
Brought  every  charger  barded  from  the  stall, 
Till  all  its  tribes  sat  mounted  on  the  shore ; 
Waiting  the  waving  of  thy  torch  to  pour 
The  living  deluge  on  the  fields  of  Spain. 
Queen  of  earth's  loveliness,  there  was  a  stain 
Upon  thy  brow — the  stain  of  guilt  and  gore  ; 
Thy  course  was  bright,  bold,  treacherous, — and  'tis 
The  spear  and  diadem  are  from  thee  gone ;     [o'er. 
Silence  is  now  sole  monarch  of  thy  throne  ! 


A  LOVER'S  OATH. 


BY  this  white  hand,  thus  shook  with  such  sweet 
By  the  deliciousness  of  this  droop'd  eye  ;       [fear; 
By  the  red  witchery  of  this  trembling  lip ; 
By  all  the  charm  of  woman's  weeping  love. 


A  MEETING  OF  MAGICIANS. 

In  my  own  land,  and  hunting  through  the  hills, 
I've  sat  from  eve  to  sunrise,  in  the  caves 
Of  Atlas,  circled  by  the  altar-fires 
Of  black  enchanters,  men  who  yearly  came, 
By  compact,  to  hold  solemn  festival  : 
Some  riding  fiery  dragons,  some  on  shafts 
Of  the  sunn'd  topaz,  some  on  ostrich  plumes, 
Or  wondrous  cars,  that  press'd  the  subtle  air, 
No  heavier  than  its  clouds, — some  in  swift  barks, 
That  lit  'he  Libyan  Sea  through  night  and  storm, 
Like  wing'd  volcanoes  ;  from  alLzones  of  the  earth, 
From  the  mysterious  fountains  of  the  Nile, 
Gold-sanded  Niger,  India's  diamond  shore, 
From  silken  China, — from  the  Spicy  Isles, 
Like  incense-urns  set  in  the  purple  sea 
By  Taprobane. 


THE  STARS. 

YE  stars  !  bright  legions  that,  before  all  time, 
Camp'd  on  yon  plain  of  sapphire,  what  shall  tell 
Your  burning  myriads,  but  the  eye  of  Him 
Who  bade  through  heaven  your  golden  chariots 

wheel  1 

Yet  who  earthborn  can  see  your  hosts,  nor  feel 
Immortal  impulses — Eternity  ? 
What  wonder  if  the  o'erwrought  soul  should  reel 
With  its  own  weight  of  thought,  and  the  wild  eye 
See  fate  within  your  tracts  of  sleepless  glory  lie  1 

For  ye  behold  the  mightiest.     From  that  steep 
What  ages  have  ye  worshipped  round  your  King  ? 
Ye  heard  his  trumpet  sounded  o'er  the  sleep 
Of  earth  ; — ye  heard  the  morning  angels  sing. 
Upon  that  orb,  now  o'er  me  quivering, 
The  gaze  of  Adam  fix'd  from  Paradise; 
The  wanderers  of  the  deluge  saw  it  spring 
Above  the  mountain  surge,  and  hail'd  its  rise 
Lightning  their  lonely  track  with  hope's  celestial 
dyes. 

On  Calvary  shot  down  that  purple  eye, 
When,  but  the  soldier  and  the  sacrifice, 
All  were  departed. — Mount  of  Agony  ! 
But  Time's  broad  pinion,  ere  the  giant  dies, 
Shall  cloud  your  dome. — Ye  fruitage  of  the  skies, 
Your  vineyard  shall  be  shaken  ! — From  your  urn 
Censers  of  Heaven  !  no  more  shall  glory  rise, 
Your  incense  to  the  Throne ! — The  heavens  shall 

burn  : 

For  all  your  pomps  are  dust,  and  shall  to  dust  re- 
turn. 

Yet  look,  ye  living  intellects. — The  trine 

Of  waning  planets  speaks  it  not  decay  ? 

Does  Schedir's  staff  of  diamond  wave  no  sign? 

Monarch  of  midnight,  Sirius,  shoots  thy  ray 

Undimm'd,  when  thrones  sublunar  pass  away  ? 

Dreams  ! — yet  if  e'er  was  graved  in  vigil  wan 

Your  spell  on  gem  or  imaged  alchemy, 

The  sign  when  empire's  hour-glass  downwards 

ran, 
'Twas  on  that  arch,  graved  on  that  brazen  talisman. 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


327 


PERICLES  AND  ASPASIA. 

THIS  was  the  ruler  of  the  land, 

When  Athens  was  the  land  of  fame ; 

This  was  the  light  that  led  the  band, 
When  each  was  like  a  living  flame : 

The  centre  of  earth's  noblest  ring, 

Of  more  than  men,  the  more  than  king  ! 

Yet,  not  by  fetter,  nor  by  spear ; 

His  sovereignty  was  held  or  won  ; 
Fear'd — but  alone  as  freemen  fear  ; 

Loved — but  as  freemen  love  alone  ! 
He  waved  the  sceptre  o'er  his  kind, 
By  nature's  first  great  title — mind  ! 

Resistless  words  were  on  his  tongue ;  • 
Then  eloquence  first  flash'd  below  ! 

Full  arm'd  to  life  the  portent  sprung, 
Minerva,  from  the  Thunderer's  brow  ! 

And  his  the  sole,  the  sacred  hand, 

That  shook  her  aegis  o'er  the  land  ! 

And  throned  immortal,  by  his  side, 
A  woman  sits,  with  eye  sublime, — 

Aspasia,  all  his  spirit's  bride  ; 

But  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime, 

Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage, — 

Their  crime  was  in  their  darken' d  age. 

He  perish'd — but  his  wreath  was  won — 
He  perish'd  on  his  height  of  fame  ! 

Then  sank  the  cloud  on  Athens'  sun  ; 
Yet  still  she  conquer'd  in  his  name. 

Fill'd  with  his  soul,  she  could  not  die— 

Her  conquest  was  posterity  ! 


LEONIDAS. 

SHOUT  for  the  mighty  men 
Who  died  along  this  shore, — 

Who  died  within  this  mountain  glen  ! 

For  never  nobler  chieftain's  head 

Was  laid  on  valour's  crimson  bed, 
Nor  ever  prouder  gore 

Sprang  forth,  than  theirs  who  won  the  day 

Upon  thy  strand,  Thermopylae  ! 

Shout  for  the  mighty  men, 

Who  on  the  Persian  tents, 
Like  lions  from  their  midnight  den, 
Bounding  on  the  slumbering  deer, 
Rush'd — a  storm  of  sword  and  spear — 

Like  tho  roused  elements, 
Let  loose  from  an  immortal  hand, 
To  chasten  or  to  crush  a  land  ! 

But  there  are  none  to  hear; 

Greece  is  a  hopeless  slave. 
Leoni  las  !   no  hand  is  near 
To  lift  thy  fiery  falchion  now: 
No  warrior  makes  the  warrior's  vow 

Upon  thy  sea-wash'd  grave. 
The  voice  that  should  be  raised  by  men, 
Must  now  be  given  by  wave  and  glen. 


And  it  is  given !  the  surge— 

The  tree — the  rock — the  sand — 
On  freedom's  kneeling  spirit  urge, 
Irf  sounds  that  speak  but  to  the  free, 
The  memory  of  thine  and  thee ! 

The  vision  of  thy  band 
Still  gleams  within  the  glorious  dell, 
Where  their  gore  hallow'd,  as  it  fell  ! 

And  is  thy  grandeur  done? 

Mother  of  men  like  these  ! 
Has  not  thy  outcry  gone 
Where  justice  has  an  ear  to  hear? 
Be  holy  !  God  shall  guide  thy  spear ; 

Till  in  thy  crimson'd  seas 
Are  plunged  the  chain  and  scimitar, 
Greece  shall  be  a  new-born  star! 


A   DIRGE. 


to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust!" 
Here  the  evil  and  the  just, 
Here  the  youthful  and  the  old, 
Here  the  fearful  and  the  bold, 
Here  the  matron  and  the  maid, 
In  one  silent  bed  are  laid  : 
Here  the  vassal  and  the  king 
Side  by  side  lie  withering  ; 
Here  the  sword  and  sceptre  rust  — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !" 

Age  on  age  shall  roll  along, 
O'er  this  pale  and  mighty  throng: 
Those  that  wept  then,  those  that  weep, 
All  shall  with  these  sleepers  sleep. 
Brothers,  sisters  of  the  worm, 
Summer's  cun,  or  winter's  storm, 
Song  of  peace,  or  battle's  roar, 
Ne'er  shall  break  their  slumbers  more; 
Death  shall  keep  his  solemn  trust  — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !" 

But  a  day  is  coming  fast, 
Earth,  thy  mightiest  and  thy  last  ; 
It  shall  come  in  fear  and  wonder, 
Heralded  by  trump  and  thunder  ; 
It  shall  come  in  strife  and  toil, 
It  shall  come  in  blood  and  spoil, 
It  shall  come  in  empire's  groans, 
Burning  temples,  trampled  thrones  ; 
Then,  ambition,  rue  thy  lust  ! 
«  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !" 

Then  shall  come  the  judgment  sign  ; 
In  the  east  the  King  shall  shine  ; 
Flashing  from  heaven's  golden  gate, 
Thousand  thousands  round  his  state  ; 
Spirits  with  the  crown  and  plume, 
Tremble  then,  thou  sullen  tomb  ! 
Heaven  shall  oprn  on  our  si^ht, 
Earth  be  turn'd  to  living  light, 
Kingdoms  of  the  ransom'd  just  — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  !" 


328 


GEORGE    CROLY. 


Then  shall,  gorgeous  as  a  gem, 
Shine  thy  mount,  Jerusalem  ; 
Then  shall  in  the  desert  rise 
Fruits  of  more  than  Paradise  ; 
Earth  by  angel  feet  he  trod, 
One  great  garden  of  her  God  ; 
Till  are  dried  the  martyr's  tears, 
Through  a  glorious  thousand  years. 
Now  in  hope  of  Him  we  trust — 
"  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust !" 


A  PARISIAN   FAUXBOURG. 

'Tis  light  and  air  again  :  and  lo  !  the  Seine, 
Yon  boasted,  lazy,  livid,  fetid  drain  ! 
With  paper  booths,  and  painted  trees  o'erlaid, 
Baths,  blankets,  wash-tubs,  women,  all  but  trade. 
Yet  here  are  living  beings,  and  the  soil 
Breeds  its  old  growth  of  ribaldry  and  broil. 
A  whirl  of  mire,  the  dingy  cabriolet 
Makes  the  quick  transit  through  the  crowded  way  ; 
On  spurs  the  courier,  creaks  the  crazy  wain, 
Dragg'd  through  its  central  gulf  of  mud  and  stain  ; 
Around  our  way-laid  wheels  the  paupers  crowd, 
Naked,  contagious,  cringing,  and  yet  proud. 
The  whole  a  mass  of  folly,  filth,  and  strife, 
Of  heated,  rank,  corrupting,  reptile  life  ; 
And,  endless  as  their  oozy  tide,  the  throng 
Roll  on  with  endless  clamour,  curse,  and  song. 
Fit  for  such  tenants,  lour  on  either  side 
The  hovels  where  the  gang  less  live  than  hide ; 
Story  on  story,'  savage  stone  on  stone,      [thrown. 
Time-shatter'd,    tempest-stain'd,    not    built,    but 
Sole  empress  of  the  portal,  in  full  blow, 
The  rouged  grisette  lays  out  her  trade  below, 
Even  in  her  rags  a  thing  of  wit  and  wile,    [smile. 
Eye,  hand,  lip,  tongue,  all  point,  and  press,  and 
Close  by,  in  patch  and  print,  the  pedlar's  stall 
Flutters  its  looser  glories  up  the  wall. 
Spot  of  corruption  !  where  the  rabble  rude 
Loiter  round  tinsel  tomes,  and  figures  nude ; 
Voltaire,  and  Lais,  long  alternate  eyed, 
Till  both  the  leper's  soul  and  sous  divide. 
Above,  'tis  desert,  save  where  sight  is  scared 
With  the  wild  visage  through  the  casement  barr'd  ; 
Or,  swinging  from  their  pole,  chemise  and  sheet 
Drip  from  the  attic  o'er  the  fuming  street. 


THE  GRIEVINGS  OF  A  PROUD  SPIRIT. 

CRIME  may  beclear'd,and  Sorrow's  eyes  be  dried, 
The  lowliest  poverty  be  gilded  yet; 
The  neck  of  airless,  pale  imprisonment 
Be  lighten'd  of  its  chains  !     For  all  the  ills 
That  chance  or  nature  lays  upon  our  heads, 
In  chance  or  nature  there  is  found  a  cure: 
But  self-abasement  is  beyond  all  cure  ! 
The  brand  is  there  burn'd  in  the  living  flesh, 
That  bears  its  mark  to  the  grav^-. — That  dagger's 
Into  the  central  pulses  of  the  heart;          [plunged 
The  act  is  tho  mind's  suicide  ,•   for  which 
There  is  no  after  health — no  hope — no  pardon ! 


EFFECT  OF  ORATORY  UPON  A  MUL- 
TITUDE. 

His  words  seem'd  oracles        [turn 
That  pierced  their  bosoms ;  and  each  man  would 
And  gaze  in  wonder  on  his  neighbour's  face, 
That  with  the  like  dumb  wonder  answer'd  him  : 
Then  some  would  weep,  some  shout,  some,  deeper 

touch'd, 

Keep  down  the  cry  with  motion  of  their  hands, 
In  fear  but  to  have  lost  a  syllable. 
The  evening  came,  yet  there  the  people  stood, 
As  if  'twere  noon,  and  they  the  marble  sea, 
Sleeping  without  a  wave.     You  could  have  heard 
The  beating  of  your  pulses  while  he  spoke. 


LOVE  AN   EVIL. 

WHY,  I  could  give  you  fact  and  argument, 
Brought  from  all  earth — all  life — all  history  ; — 
O'erwhelm  you  with  sad  tales,  convictions  strong, 
Till  you  could  hate  it ;  tell  of  gentle  lives, 
Light  as  the  lark's  upon  the  morning  cloud, 
Struck  down  at  once  by  the  keen  shaft  of  love ; 
Of  maiden  beauty,  wasting  all  away, 
Like  a  departing  vision  into  air ; 
Finding  no  occupation  for  her  eyes, 
But  to  bedew  her  couch  with  midnight  tears, 
Till  death  upon  its  bosom  pillow'd  her ; 
Of  noble  natures  sour'd  ;  rich  minds  obscured ; 
High  hopes  turn'd  blank  ;  nay,  of  the  kingly  crown 
Mouldering  amid  the  embers  of  the  throne  ; — 
And  all  by  love.     We  paint  him  as  a  child, 
When  he  should  sit,  a  giant  on  his  clouds, 
The  great,  disturbing  spirit  of  the  world  ! 


JEWELS. 

You  shall  have  all  that  ever  sparkled  yet, 
And  of  the  rarest.     Not  an  Afric  king 
Shall  wear  one  that  you  love.  The  Persian's  brow, 
And  the  swart  emperor's  by  the  Indian  stream 
Shall  wane  beside  you;  you  shall  be  a  blaze 
Of  rubies,  your  lips  rivals  ;  topazes, 
Like  solid  sunbeams  ;  moony  opals  ;  pearls, 
Fit  to  be  Ocean's  lamps ;  brown  hyacinths, 
Lost  only  in  your  tresses ;  chrysolites, 
Transparent  gold  ;  diamonds,  like  new-shot  stars, 
Or  brighter, — like  those  eyes  !     You  shall  have  all 
That  ever  lurk'd  in  Eastern  mines,  or  paved 
With  light  the  treasure-chambers  of  the  sea. 


MOUNTAINEERS. 

THE  mountain-horn  shall  ring, 
And  every  Alp  shall  answer;  and  the  caves, 
And  forest  depths  and  valleys,  and  the  beds 
Of  the  eternal  snows,  shall  pour  out  tribes 
That  know  no  Roman  tyrants. — daring  hearts, 
Swift  feet,  strong  hands,  that  neither  hunger,  thirst, 
Nor  winter  cataracts,  nor  the  tempest's  roar, 
When  the  hills  shake  with  thunderbolt*, — can  tire. 


WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL. 


THIS  poet  was  a  native  of  Ayrshire,  and  was 
several  years  editor  of  a  newspaper  in  Glas- 
gow. He  was  an  antiquary,  and  particular- 
ly delighted  in  the  study  of  the  early  ballads 
and  other  poetry  of  Scotland  and  England,  of 
which  he  published  a  selection  in  1827,  entitled 
Minstrelsy  Ancient  and  Modern,  with  an  His- 
torical Introduction  and  Notes.  In  this  vo- 
lume he  published  his  own  spirited  lyric,  The 
Cavalier's  Song,  professing  an  ignorance  of 
its  authorship.  His  Poems  Narrative  and 


Lyrical  appeared  in  1832.  Some  of  them  are 
exceedingly  beautiful.  Jeannie  Morrison  and 
"  My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie,"  are  scarce- 
ly surpassed  for  simplicity  and  tenderness  in 
the  whole  range  of  Scottish  poetry.  MOTHER- 
WELL,  like  BURNS,  was  poor,  and,  like  him, 
toward  the  close  of  his  life,  he  sought  ex- 
citement and  forgetfulness  in  intemperance. 
He  died  in  Glasgow  on  the  fifteenth  of  Octo- 
ber, 1835,  in  the  thirty-seventh  year  of  his 


MY  HEID  IS  LIKE  TO  REND,  WILLIE. 

MY  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break, — 
I'm  wearin'  aff  my  feet,  Willie, 

I'm  dyin'  for  your  sake  ! 
O  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane, — 
O  say  ye'll  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I  am  deid  and  gane  ! 

It's  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie, 

Sair  grief  maun  hae  its  will, — 
But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest, 

To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 
Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 
And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I  never  sail  see  mair  ! 

I'm  sittin'  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life, — 
A  puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 

A  rnither,  yet  nae  wife. 
Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart, 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair, — 
Or  it  will  burst  its  silken  twine, 

Sae  strang  is  its  despair  ! 

O  wae's  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met, — 
0  wae's  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set ! 
O  wae's  me  for  the  loanin'  green 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae, — 
And  wae's  me  for  tbe  destinie, 

That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae ! 

O  !  dinna  mind  my  words,  Willie, 

I  downa  seek  to  blame, — 
But  O  !  it's  bard  to  live,  Willie, 

And  dree  a  warld's  shame  ! 
42 


Hot  tears  are  hailin'  ower  your  cheek, 

And  hailin'  ower  your  chin  ; 
Why  weep  ye  sae  for  worthlessness, 

For  sorrow  and  for  sin1? 

I'm  weary  o'  this  warld,  Willie, 

And  sick  wi'  a'  I  see, — 
I  canna  live  as  I  ha'e  lived, 

Or  be  as  I  should  be. 
But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine, — 
And  kiss  ance  mair  the  white,  white  cheek, 

Ye  said  was  red  langsyne. 

A  stoun'  gaes  through  my  heid,  Willie, 

A  sair  stoun'  through  my  heart, — 
O  i  baud  me  up  and  let  me  kiss 

Thy  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 
Anither,  and  anither  yet — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break  ! — 
Fareweel !  fareweel !  through  yon  kirk-yard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake  ! 

The  laverock  in  the  lift,  Willie, 

That  lilts  far  ower  our  heid. 
Will  sing  the  morn  as  merrilie 

Abune  the  clay-cauld  deid  ; 
And  this  green  turf  we're  sittin'  on, 

Wi'  dew-draps  shimmerin'  sheen, 
Will  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 

As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

But  0  !  remember  me,  Willie, 

On  land  where'er  ye  be, — 
And  O  !  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart, 

That  ne'er  luvit  ane  but  thee  ! 
And  O  !  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mools, 

That  file  my  yellow  hair, — 
That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin, 

Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair  ! 

2  E  2  3-79 


330 


WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL. 


THE  WATER !     THE  WATER ! 

THE  water !  the  water  ! 

The  joyous  brook  for  me, 
That  tuneth,  through  the  quiet  night, 

Its  ever-living  glee. 
The  water !  the  water  ! 

That  sleepless,  merry  heart, 
Which  gurgles  on  unstintedly, 

And  loveth  to  impart 
To  all  around  it  some  small  measure 
Of  its  own  most  perfect  pleasure. 

The  water !  the  water  ! 

The  gentle  stream  for  me, 
That  gushes  from  the  old  gray  stone, 

Beside  the  alder  tree. 
The  water  !   the  water  ! 

That  ever-bubbling  spring 
I  loved  and  looked  on  while  a  child, 

In  deepest  wondering, — 
And  ask'd  it  whence  it  came  and  went, 
And  when  its  treasures  would  be  spent. 

The  water  !  the  water ! 

The  merry,  wanton  broo"k, 
That  bent  itself  to  pleasure  me, 

Like  mine  own  shepherd  crook. 
The  water  !  the  water ! 

That  sang  so  sweet  at  noon, 
And  sweeter  still  all  night,  to  win 

Smiles  from  the  pale,  proud  moon, 
And  from  the  little  fairy  faces 
That  gleam  in  heaven's  remotest  places. 

The  water !  the  water  ! 

The  dear  and  blessed  thing, 
That  all  day  fed  the  little  flowers 

On  its  banks  blossoming. 
The  water  !  the  water  ! 

That  murmur'd  in  my  ear 
Hymns  of  a  saint-like  purity, 

That  angels  well  might  hear ; 
And  whisper,  in  the  gates  of  heaven, 
How  meek  a  pilgrim  had  been  shriven. 

The  water  !  the  water  ! 

Where  I  have  shed  salt  tears, 
In  loneliness  and  friendliness, 

A  thing  of  tender  years. 
The  water  !  the  water  ! 

Where  I  have  happy  been, 
And  shower'd  upon  its  bosom  flowers 

Cull'd  from  each  meadow  green, 
And  idly  hoped  my  life  would  be 
So  crown'd  by  love's  idolatry. 

The  water  !  the  water  ! 

My  heart  yet  burns  to  think 
How  cool  thy  fountain  sparkled  forth, 

For  parched  lip  to  drink. 
The  water  !  the  water  ! 

Of  mine  own  native  glen  ; 
The  gladsome  tongue  I  oft  have  heard, 

But  ne'er  shall  hear  again  ; 
Though  fancy  fills  my  ear  for  aye 
With  sounds  that  live  so  far  away ! 


The  water  !  the  water  ! 

The  mild  and  glassy  wave, 
Upon  whose  hroomy  banks  I've  long'd 

To  find  my  silent  grave. 
The  water !  the  water  ! 

Oh  bless'd  to  me  thou  art ; 
Thus  sounding  in  life's  solitude, 

The  music  of  my  heart, 
And  filling  it,  despite  of  sadness, 
With  dreamings  of  departed  gladness. 

The  water  !  the  water  ! 

The  mournful,  pensive  tone, 
That  whisper'd  to  my  heart  how  soon 

This  weary  lite  was  done. 
The  water  !  the  water ! 

That  roll'd  so  bright  and  free, 
And  bade  me  mark  how  beautiful 

Was  its  soul's  purity ; 
And  how  it  glanced  to  heaven  its  wave, 
As  wandering  on  it  sought  its  grave. 


JEANIE  MORRISON. 

I'VE  wander'd  east,  I've  wander'd  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day ! 
The  fire  that's  blawn  at  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  dick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time — sad  time !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remember'd  evermair. 

1  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sittin'  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  lock'd  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think '? 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

Oh,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads 
How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 

Whene'er  the  scule-vveans  laughin'  sai'l 
We  cfeek'd  thegither  hame  1 


WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL. 


331 


And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays, 
(The  scule  then  skail't  at  noon), 

When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes — 
The  broomy  braes  o'  June  1 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

O'  scule-time  and  o'  thee. 

0  mornin'  life !  O  mornin'  luve  ! 
O  lichtsome  days  and  lang, 

When  hinnie  hopes  around  our  hearts 
Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang ! 

0,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin',  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burn-side, 

And  hear  it's  water's  croon  1 
*The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 
And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 

The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we  with  nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gush'd  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

1  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  1 
Oh  !  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine ; 
Oh  !  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  langsyne  ] 

I've  wander'd  east,  I've  wander'd  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wand'rings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  ffae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sinder'd  young, 
I've  never  seen  your  face  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  yonr  tongue; 
But  I  could  hug  all  •wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  die, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dream'd 

O'  bygane  days  and  me  ! 


LfNES  GIVEN  TO  A  FRIEND 

A  DAY  OR  TWO  BEFORE  THE  DECEASE  OF  THE  WRITER. 


I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleeping, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eyd  weeping 

That  I'm  no  more  1 
Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory  keeping 

Of  heretofore  1 

When  the  great  winds  through  leafless  forests  rush- 
Sad  music  make  ;  [ing, 

When  the  swollen  streams  o'er  crag  and  gully  gush- 
Like  full  hearts  break,  [ing> 

Will  there  then  one  whose  heart  despair  is  crushing 
Mourn  for  my  sake  1 

When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shining 

With  purest  ray, 
And  the  small  flowers,  their  buds  and  blossoms 

Burst  through  that  clay  ;        [twining, 
Will  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot  repining 

Lost  hopes  all  day  1 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye  of  glory 

On  that  low  mound  ; 
And  wintry  storms  have  with  their  ruins  hoary 

Its  loneness  crown'd  ; 
Will  there  be  then  one  versed  in  misery's  story 

Pacing  it  round  1 

It  may  be  so,  —  but  this  is  selfish  sorrow 

To  ask  such  meed,  — 
A  weakness  and  a  wickedness  to  borrow, 

From  hearts  that  bleed, 
The  wailings  of  to-day  for  what  to-morrow 

Shall  never  need. 

Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow  dwelling, 

Thou  gentle  heart  ; 
And  though  thy  bosom  should  with  grief  be  swell- 

Let  no  tear  start  ;  [ing, 

It  were  in  vain,  —  for  Time  hath  long  been  knell- 

Sad  one,  depart  !  [ing  — 


O  AGONY!    KEEN  AGONY! 


O  AGOKY  !  keen  agony, 

For  trusting  heart,  to  find 
That  vows  believed  were  vows  conceived 

As  light  as  summer  wind. 

0  agony  !  fierce  agony, 

For  loving  heart  to  brook 
In  one  brief  hour  the  withering  power 

Of  unimpassion'd  look. 

O  agony  !  deep  agony, 

For  heart  that's  proud  and  high, 
To  learn  of  fate  how  desolate 

It  may  be  ere  it  die. 

O  agony  !  sharp  agony 

To  find  how  loth  to  part 
With  the  fickleness  and  faithlessness 

That  break  a  trusting  heart  ! 


332 


WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL. 


THEY  COME!    THE  MERRY  SUMMER 
MONTHS. 

THEY  come !  the  merry  summer  months 

Of  beauty,  song,  and  flowers  ; 
They  come  !  the  gladsome  months  that  bring 

Thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 
Up,  up  my  heart !  and  walk  abroad, 

Fling  cark  and  care  aside, 
Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself 

Where  peaceful  waters  glide ; 
Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast 

Of  patriarchal  tree, 
Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky 

In  rapt  tranquillity. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch 

Is  grateful  to  the  hand, 
And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love, 

The  breeze  is  sweet  and  bland ; 
The  daisy  and  the  buttercup 

Are  nodding  courteously, 
It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love 

To  bless  and  welcome  thee  : 
And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks — 

Thev  now  are  silver  gray-  - 
That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning, 

And  whispering,  "Be  gay!" 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along 

The  ocean  of  yon  sky 
But  hath  its  own  wing'd  mariners 

To  give  it  melody: 
Thou  see'st  their  glittering  fans  outspread 

All  gleaming  like  red  gold, 
And  hark  !  with  shrill  pipe  musical, 

Their  merry  course  they  hold. 
God  bless  them  all,  these  little  ones, 

Who  far  above  this  earth, 
Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys, 

And  vent  a  nobler  mirth. 

But  soft !  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound, 

From  yonder  wood  it  came  ; 
The  spirit  of  the  dim,  green  glade 

Did  breathe  his  own  glad  name ; — 
Yes,  it  is  he  !  the  hermit  bird, 

That  apart  from  all  his  kind, 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous 

To  the  soft  western  wind ; 
Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  he  sings  again — 

His  notes  are  void  of  art, 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound 

The  deep  founts  of  the  heart ! 

Good  Lord  !  it  is  a  gracious  boon 

For  thought-crazed  wight  like  me, 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers 

Beneath  this  summer  tree  ! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath 

Their  little  souls  away, 
And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams 

Of  youth's  bright  summer  day, 
When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt., 

The  reckless  truant  boy 
Wander'd  through  green  woods  all  day  long, 

A  mighty  heart  of  joy  ! 


I'm  sadder  now,  I  have  had  cause ; 

But  oh !  I'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount  loved  of  yore 

I  yet  delight  to  drink  ; — 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream, 

The  calm,  unclouded  sky, 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams, 

As  in  the  days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light 

Fall  round  me  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse — 

A  heart  that  hath  wax'd  old. 


I  AM  NOT  SAD. 

I  AM  not  sad,  though  sadness  seem 

At  times  to  cloud  my  brow ; 
I  cherish'd  once  a  foolish  dream, — 
Thank  Heaven  'tis  not  so  now. 
Truth's  sunshine  broke, 
And  I  awoke 

To  feel  'twas  right  to  bow 
To  fate's  decree,  and  this  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  tomb. 

I  grieve  not,  though  a  tear  may  fill 

This  glazed  and  vacant  eye ; 
Old  thoughts  will  rise,  do  what  we  will, 
B  ut  soon  again  they  die ; 
An  idle  gush, 
And  all  is  hush, 
The  fount  is  soon  run  dry : 
And  cheerly  now  I  meet  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  tomb. 

I  am  not  mad,  although  I  see 
Things  of  no  better  mould 
Than  I  myself  am,  greedily 
In  fame's  bright  page  enroll'd, 
That  they  may  tell 
The  story  well, 

What  shines  may  not  be  gold. 
No,  no !  content  I  court  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  tomb. 

The  luck  is  theirs — the  loss  is  mine, 

And  yet  no  loss  at  all ; 
The  mighty  ones  of  eldest  time, 
I  ask  where  they  did  fall  ] 
Tell  me  the  one 
Who  e'er  could  shun 
Touch  with  oblivion's  pall  1 
All  bear  with  me  an  equal  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  tomb. 

Brave  temple  and  huge  pyramid, 

Hill  sepulchred  by  art, 
The  barrow  acre-vast  where  hid 
Moulders  some  Nimrod's  heart ; 
Each  monstrous  birth 
Cumbers  old  earth, 
But  acts  a  voiceless  part, 
Resolving  all  to  mine  own  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  tomb. 

Tradition  with  her  palsied  hand, 
And  purblind  history,  may 


WILLIAM    MOTHERWELL. 


Grope  and  guess  well  that  in  this  land 
Some  great  one  lived  his  day ; 
And  what  is  this, 
Blind  hit  or  miss, 
But  labour  thrown  away, 
For  counterparts  to  mine  own  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  tomb  ] 
I  do  not  peak  and  pine  away, 

Lo  !  this  deep  bowl  I  quaff; 
If  sigh  1  do,  you  still  must  say 
It  sounds  more  like  a  laugh. 
'Tis  not  too  late 
To  separate 

The  good  seed  from  the  chaff; 
And  scolf  at  those  who  scorn  my  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  tomb. 
I  spend  no  sigh,  I  shed  no  tear, 
*  Though  life's  first  dream  is  gone ; 
And  its  bright  picturings  now  appear 
Cold  images  of  stone  ; 
I've  learn'd  to*see 
The  vanity 

Of  lusting  to  be  known, 
And  gladly  hail  my  changeless  doom, 
The  darkness  of  a  nameless  tomb ! 

BENEATH  A  PLACID  BROW. 

BEXKATH  a  placid  brow, 

And  tear-unstained  cheek, 
To  bear  as  I  do  now 

A  heart  that  well  could  break ; 
To  simulate  a  smile 

Amid  the  wrecks  of  grief, — 
To  herd  among  the  vile, 

And  therein  seek  relief, — 
For  the  bitterness  of  thought 
Were  joyance  dearly  bought. 
When  will  man  learn  to  bear 

His  heart  nail'd  on  his  breast, 
With  all  its  lines  of  care 

In  nakedness  confess'd  1 — 
Why,  in  this  solemn  mask 

Of  passion- wasted  life, 
Will  no  one  dare  the  task 

To  speak  his  sorrows  rife  1 — 
Will  no  one  bravely  tell 
His  bosom  is  a  hell  ? 

I  scorn  this  hated  scene 

Of  masking  and  disguise, 
Where  men  on  men  still  gleam, 

With  falseness  in  their  eyes ; 
Where  all  is  counterfeit, 

And  truth  hath  never  say; 
Where  hearts  themselves  do  cheat, 

Concealing  hope's  decay, 
And  writhing  at  the  stake, 
Themselves  do  liars  make. 

Go,  search  thy  heart,  poor  fool ! 

And  mark  its  passions  well; 
'Twere  time  to  go  to  school. — 

'Twere  time  the  truth  to  tell, — 
'Tvvorn  time  this  world  should  cast 

Its  infant  slough  away, 


And  hearts  burst  forth  at  last 

Into  the  light  of  day  ; — 
'Twere  time  all  learn'd  to  be 
Fit  for  eternity ! 

THE  CAVALIER'S  SONG. 

A  STEED,  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed  ! 

A  sword  of  metal  keene  ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse, 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 
The  neighyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde, 

The  rowlings  of  the  drum, 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come ; 
And  0  !  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes 

Whenas  their  war-cryes  swell, 
May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright, 

And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 
Then  mounte !  then  mounte !  brave  gallants  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine : 
Deathe's  couriers,  fame  and  honour,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt's  in  our  hand, — 
Heart-whole  we'll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land  ; 
Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye, 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  tight, 

And  hero-like  to  die  ! 


WHAT  IS  GLORY?  WHAT  IS  FAME? 

WHAT  is  glor,y  ?     What  is  fame  1 
The  echo  of  a  long  lost  name ; 
A  breath,  an  idle  hour's  brief  talk ; 
The  shadow  of  an  arrant  naught ; 
A  flower  that  blossoms  for  a  day, 

Dying  next  morrow: 
A  stream  that  hurries  on  its  way, 

Singing  of  sorrow  ; — 
The  last  drop  of  a  bootless  shower, 
Shed  on  a  sere  and  leafless  bower ; 
A  rose,  stuck  in  a  dead  man's  breast, — • 
This  is  the  world's  fame  at  the  best ! 
What  is  fame  1  and  what  is  glory  1 
A  dream, — a  jester's  lying  story, 
To  tickle  fools  withal,  or  be 
A  theme  for  second  infancy ; 
A  joke  scrawled  on  an  epitaph  ; 
A  grin  at  death's  own  ghastly  laugh  • 
A  visioning  that  tempts  the  eye, 
But  mocks  the  touch — nonentity; 
A  rainbow,  substanceless  as  bright, 

Flitting  for  ever 
O'er  hill-top  to  more  distant  height, 

Nearing  us  never ; 
A  bubble,  blown  by  fond  conceit, 
In  very  sooth  itself  to  cheat ; 
The  witch-fire  of  a  frenzied  brain  ; 
A  fortune  that  to  lose  were  gain  ; 
A  word  of  praise,  perchance  of  blame  ; 
The  wreck  of  a  time-bandied  name, — 
Ay,  this  is  glory ! — this  is  fame  ! 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


THIS  poet  was  born  in  London,  in  1798. 
His  father,  a  native  of  Scotland,  was  a  book- 
seller and  publisher.  The  subject  of  our 
biography  was  educated  at  an  academy  in 
Camberwell,  and  after  taking  a  sea-voyage 
for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  was  apprenticed 
to  an  uncle  to  learn  the  art  of  engraving. 
Some  verses  which  he  published  meantime  in 
the  "  London  Magazine,"  attracted  so  much 
attention  as  to  induce  him  to  abandon  the 
graver  for  the  pen,  and  he  has  been  since 
known  as  a  man  of  letters.  He  is  the  author 
of  "Whims  and  Oddities,"  "  The  Comic  An- 
nual," and  other  humorous  productions,  some 
of  which  have  had  an  unparalleled  popularity ; 
and  he  is  deserving  of  great  reputation  for  his 
admirable  compositions  of  a  more  serious  de- 
scription, of  which  we  give  liberal  specimens. 
His  longest  poem,  "The  Plea  of  the  Mid- 


summer Fairies,"  was  published  in  1828,  and 
is  designed  to  celebrate  by  an  allegory  that 
immortality  which  SHAKSPEARE  has  conferred 
on  the  fairy  mythology  by  his  "  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream."  "The  Sylvan  Fay,"  and 
"Ariel  and  the  Suicide,"  in  the  following 
pages,  are  from  this  poem,  and  will  give  the 
reader  an  idea  of  its  style.  He  soon  after 
wrote  "Tylney  Hall,"  a  novel,  and  on  the 
death  of  THEODORE  HOOK  became  editor  of 
Colburn's  "  New  Monthly  Magazine,"  which 
he  conducted  until  the  beginning  of  the  pre- 
sent year,  when  he  established  "Hood's 
Comic  Miscellany,"  a  monthly  periodical  of 
which  the  character  is  sufficiently  indicated 
by  its  title.  The  striking  lyric  entitled  "The 
Song  of  a  Shirt,"  appeared  but  a  few  weeks 
ago,  and  is  the  latest  of  Mr.  HOOD'S  composi- 
tions which  we  have  seen. 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM.* 

'TWAS  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 
And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school : 
There  were  some  that  ran  and  some  that  leapt, 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 

And  souls  untouch'd  by  sin ; 
To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran, — 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can  ; 
But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man ! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  was  apart, 
To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze  ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease  : 

*  The  late  Admiral  Barney  went  to  school  at  an  estab- 
lishment where  the  unhappy  Eugene  Aram  was  usher, 
subsequent  to  his  crime.  The  admiral  stated,  that  Aram 
was  generally  liked  by  the  boys  ;  and  that  he  used  to  dis- 
course to  them  about  murder,  in  somewhat  of  the  spirit 
which  is  attributed  to  him  in  this  poem. 
334 


So  he  lean'd  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees  ! 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turn'd  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside  ; 
For  the  peace  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 

In  the  golden  eventide  : 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome ; 

With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strain'd  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fix'd  the  brazen  hasp  : 
"  O  God,  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp  !" 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 

Some  moody  turns  he  took, — 
Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  mead, 

And  past  a  shady  nook, — 
And,  lo !  he  saw  a  little  boy 

That  pored  upon  a  book ! 

"My  gentle  lad,  what  is't  you  read — 

Romance  or  fairy  fable  1 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable?" 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance, — 

«  It  is  « The  Death  of  Abel.'  " 

The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 
As  smit  with  sudden  pain, — 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


335 


Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 

Then  slowly  back  again ; 
And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 

And  talk'd  with  him  of  Cain ; 

And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 

Whose  deeds  tradition  saves  ; 
Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves ; 
Of  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn, 

And  murders  done  in  caves ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 
Shriek  upward  from  the  sod, — 

Ay,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 
To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 

And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 
Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walk'd  the  earth 

Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain, — 
With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain : 
For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain  ! 

"  And  well,"  quoth  he,  "  I  know,  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme, — 

Wo,  wo,  unutterable  wo — 

Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream  ! 

For  why  ?   Methought,  last  night,  I  wrought 
A  murder  in  a  dream  ! 

«  One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong — 

A  feeble  man,  and  old ; 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field, 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold  : 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold  ! 

"  Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick, 

And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 
One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife, — 

And  then  the  deed  was  done  : 
There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  foot, 

But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone  ! 

"  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill ; 
And  yet  I  fear'd  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still : 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look, 

That  murder  could  not  kill ! 

"And,  lo  !  the  universal  air 

Seem'd  lit  with  ghastly  flame, — 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame  : 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  the  hand, 
And  call'd  upon  his  name  ! 

"  O  God,  it  made  me  quake  to  see 

Such  sense  within  the  slain  ! 
But  when  I  touch'd  the  lifeless  clay, 

The  blood  gush'd  out  amain  ! 
For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot, 

Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 

"  My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 
My  heart  as  solid  ice ; 


My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  Devil's  price : 
A  dozen  times  I  groan'd ;  the  dead 

Had  never  groan'd  but  twice  ! 

«  And  now  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
From  the  heaven's  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice — the  awful  voice 
Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite  : — 

<  Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dead 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight !' 

"  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream, — 
A  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme. 
My  gentle  boy,  remember  this 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream! 

"  Down  went  the  corse  with  a  hollow  plunge, 

And  vanish'd  in  the  pool ; 
Anon  I  cleansed  my  bloody  hands 

And  wash'd  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  urchins  young 

That  evening  in  the  school ! 

"  0  heaven,  to  think  of  their  white  souls, 

And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 
I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 

Nor  join  in  evening  hymn  : 
Like  a  devil  of  the  pit  I  seem'd, 

Mid  holy  cherubim  ! 

"  And  peace  went  with  them  one  and  all, 

And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 
But  guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain 

That  lighted  me  to  bed, 
And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round, 

With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 

"All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep ; 
My  fever'd  eyes  I  dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  sleep  ; 
For  sin  had  render'd  unto  her 

The  keys  of  hell  to  keep  ! 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
With  one  besetting  horrid  hint, 

That  rack'd  me  all  the  time, — 
A  mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 

Fierce  impulse  unto  crime  ! 

"One  stern,  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 

All  other  thoughts  its  slave  ; 
Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 

Did  that  temptation  crave, — 
Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 

The  dead  man  in  his  grave ! 

"  Heavily  I  rose  up, — as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky, — 
And  sought  the  bla'ck  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild  misgiving  eye  ; 
And  I  saw  the  dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry  ! 

"  Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dew-drop  from  its  wing : 


336 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


But  I  never  mark'd  its  morning  flight, 

I  never  heard  it  sing : 
For  I  was  stooping  once  again 

Under  the  horrid  thing. 

"  With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 

I  took  him  up  and  ran, — 
There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began  : 
In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I  hid  the  murder'd  man ! 

"  And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 
But  my  thought  was  other  where ; 

As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there  : 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

"  Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 
For  I  knew  my  secret  then  was  one 

That  earth  refused  to  keep ; 
Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep ! 

"  So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones  ! 
Ay,  though  he's  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones  ! 

«  O  God,  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Again — again,  with  a  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  I  take ; 
And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 

"  And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow  ; 
The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul, — 

It  stands  before  me  now  !" — 
The  fearful  boy  look'd  up,  and  saw 

Huge  drops  upon  his  brow  ! 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin  eyelids  kiss'd, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 
And  Eugene  Aram  walk'd  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 


THE  SYLVAN  FAIRY. 

THE:*  next  a  merry  woodsman,  clad  in  green, 
Slept  vanward  from  his  mates,  that  idly  stood 

Each  at  his  proper  ease,  as  they  had  been 
Nursed  in  the  liberty  of  old  Sherwood, 
And  wore  the  livery  of  Robin  Hood, 

Who  wont  in  forest  shades  to  dine  and  sup, — 
So  came  this  chief  right  frankly,  and  made  good 

His  haunch  against  his  axe,  and  thus  spoke  up, 

Doffing  his  cap,  which  was  an  acorn's  cup : — 

«  We  be  small  foresters  and  gay,  who  tend 
On  trees,  and  all  their  furniture  of  green, 


Training  the  young  boughs  airily  to  bend, 

And  show  blue  snatches  of  the  sky  between: — 
Or  knit  more  close  intricacies,  to  screen 

Birds'  crafty  dwellings  as  may  hide  them  best, 
But  most  the  timid  blackbird's — she,  that  seen, 

Will  bear  black  poisonous  berries  to  her  riest, 

Lest  man  should  cage  the  darlings  of  her  breast. 

«  We  bend  each  tree  in  proper  attitude, 

And  founting  willows  train  in  silvery  falls  ; 

We  frame  all  shady  roofs  and  arches  rude, 
And  verdant  aisles  leading  to  Dryad's  halls, 
Or  deep  recesses  where  the  echo  calls  ; — 

We  shape  all  plumy  trees  against  the  sky, 
And  carve  tall  elms'  Corinthian  capitals, — 

When  sometimes,  as  our  tiny  hatchets  ply, 

Men  say,  the  tapping  woodpecker  is  nigh. 

"  Sometimes  we  scoop  the  squirrel's  hollow  cell, 
And  sometimes  carve  quaint  letters  on  trees'  rind, 

That  haply  some  lone  musing  wight  may  spell 
Dainty  Aminta, — Gentle  Rosalind, — 
Or  chastest  Laura, — sweetly  call'd  to  mind 

In  sylvan  solitudes,  ere  he  lies  down ; — 

And  sometimes  we  enrich  gray  stems,  with  twined 

And  fragrant  ivy, — or  rich  moss,  whose  brown 

Burns  into  gold  as  the  warm  sun  goes  down. 

"  And,  lastly,  for  mirth's  sake  and  Christmas  cheer, 
We  bear  the  seedling  berries,  for  increase, 

To  graft  the  Druid  oaks,  from  year  to  year, 
Careful  that  misletoe  may  never  cease ; — 
Wherefore,  if  thou  dost  prize  the  shady  peace 

Of  sombre  forests,  or  to  see  light  break 

Through  sylvan  cloisters,  and  in  spring  release 

Thy  spirit  amongst  leaves  from  careful  ake, 

Spare  us  our  lives  for  the  green  Dryad's  sake." 


ARIEL  AND  THE  SUICIDE. 

LET  me  remember  how  I  saved  a  man, 
Whose  fatal  noose  was  fasten'd  on  a  bough, 

Intended  to  abridge  his  sad  life's  span; 

For  haply  I  was  by  when  he  began 
His  stern  soliloquy  in  life's  dispraise, 

And  overheard  his  melancholy  plan, 
How  he  had  made  a  vow  to  end  his  days, 
And  therefore  follow'd  him  in  all  his  ways. 

Through  brake  and  tangled  copse,  for  much  he 
loath'd 

All  populous  haunts,  and  roam'd  in  forests  rude, 
To  hide  himself  from  man.     But  I  had  clothed 

My  delicate  limbs  with  plumes,  and  still  pursued, 

Where  only  foxes  and  wild  cats  intrude, 
Till  we  were  come  beside  an  ancient  tree 

Late  blasted  by  a  storm.  Here  he  renew'd 
His  loud  complaints, — choosing  that  spot  to  be 
The  scene  of  his  last  horrid  tragedy. 

It  was  a  wild  and  melancholy  glen, 

Made  gloomy  by  tall  firs  and  cypress  dark, 

Whose  roots,  like  any  bones  of  buried  men, 
Push'd  through  the  rotten  sod  for  fear's  remark  ; 


IF  A  0  38     0  : 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


337 


A  hundred  horrid  stems,  jagged  and  stark, 
Wrestled  with  crooked  arms  in  hideous  fray, 

Besides  sleek  ashes  with  their  dappled  bark, 
Like  crafty  serpents  climbing  for  a  prey, 
With  many  blasted  oaks  moss-grown  and  gray. 

But  here  upon  his  final  desperate  clause 
Suddenly  I  pronounced  so  sweet  a  strain, 

Like  a  pang'd  nightingale,  it  made  him  pause, 
Till  half  the  frenzy  of  his  grief  was  slain, 
The  sad  remainder  oozing  from  his  brain 

In  timely  ecstasies  of  healing  tears, 

Which  through  his  ardent  eyes  began  to  drain  ;- 

Meanwhile  the  deadly  fates  unclosed  their  shears  ;- 

So  pity  me  and  all  my  fated  peers. 


FAIR  INES. 

OH,  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She 's  gone  into  the  west, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest : 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 

And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

Oh  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night, 
For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright ; 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

I  dare  not  even  write  ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier 
Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near  ! — 
Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 
With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before; 
And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ; 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream, 

— If  it  had  been  no  more ! 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 
With  music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng; 
But  some  were  sad  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  music's  wrong, 
In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  farewell, 

To  her  you  've  loved  so  long. 
43 


Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines, 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 
The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more ! 


SIGH  ON,  SAD  HEART! 

SIGH  on,  sad  heart,  for  love's  eclipse, 

And  beauty's  fairest  queen, 
Though  'tis  not  for  my  peasant  lips 

To  soil  her  name  between  : 
A  king  might  lay  his  sceptre  down, 

But  I  am  poor  and  nought, 
The  brow  should  wear  a  golden  crown, 

That  wears  her  in  its  thought. 

The  diamonds  glancing  in  her  hair, 

Whose  sudden  beams  surprise, 
Might  bid  such  humble  hopes  beware 

The  glancing  of  her  eyes : 
Yet  looking  once,  I  look'd  too  long, 

And  if  my  love  is  sin, 
Death  follows  on  the  heels  of  wrong, 

And  kills  the  crime  within. 

Her  dress  seem'd  wove  of  lily  leaves 

It  was  so  pure  and  fine, 
Oh  lofty  wears,  and  lowly  weaves, 

But  hoddan  gray  is  mine ; 
And  homely  hose  must  step  apart, 

Where  garter'd  princes  stand, 
But  may  he  wear  my  love  at  heart 

That  wins  her  lily  hand ! 

Alas  !  there 's  far  from  russet  frize 

To  silks  and  satin  gowns, 
But  I  doubt  if  God  made  like  degrees, 

In  courtly  hearts  and  clowns. 
My  father  wrong'd  a  maiden's  mirth, 

And  brought  her  cheeks  to  blame, 
And  all  that 's  lordly  of  my  birth, 

Is  my  reproach  and  shame  ! 

'Tis  vain  to  weep — 'tis  vain  to  sigh, 

'Tis  vain  this  idle  speech, 
For  where  her  happy  pearls  do  lie, 

My  tears  may  never  reach; 
Yet  when  I'm  gone,  e'en  lofty  pride 

May  say  of  what  has  been, 
His  love  was  nobly  born  and  died, 

Though  all  the  rest  was  mean ! 

My  speech  is  rude, — but  speech  is  weak 

Such  love  as  mine  to  tell, 
Yet  had  I  words,  I  dare  not  speak, 

So,  lady,  fare  thee  well ; 
I  will  not  wish  thy  better  state 

Was  one  of  low  degree, 
But  I  must  weep  that  partial  fate 

Made  such  a  churl  of  me. 


338 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

WITH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

She  sang  the  «  Song  of  the  Shirt !" 

"  Work  !  work  !  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It 's  oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, — 

If  THIS  is  Christian  work  ! 

«  Work — work — work  ! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 
Work — work — work, 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  ! 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band  ; 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam ; 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  my  dream ! 

"  Oh  !  men  with  sisters  dear  ! 

Oh !  men  with  mothers  and  wives  ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch— stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  SHROUD  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

«  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death, 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone; 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  ! 
It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

Because  of  the  fast  I  keep ; 
O  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

"  Work — work — work ! 

My  labour  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  T     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags : 
A  shatter'd  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there ! 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 
Work — work — work, 

As  prisoners  work,  for  crime ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam ; 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band ; 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumb'd 
.  As  well  as  the  weary  hand! 

«  Work — work — work, 

In  the  dull  December  light, 
And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright : 


While  underneath  the  eaves 
The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 
And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

«  Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet ; 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  Oh  !  but  for  one  short  hour ! 

A  respite,  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope  ; 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart — 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !" 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  ; 
Stitch — stitch — stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch- 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  !- 

She  sang  this  «  Song  of  the  Shirt !" 


SILENCE. 

THERE  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound, 
There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be, 
In  the  cold  grave — under  the  deep,  deep  sea, 

Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found,  [found  ; 

Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  pro- 
No  voice  is  hush'd — no  life  treads  silently, 
But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free, 

That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground  : 

But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 
Of  antique  palaces,  where  man  hath  been, 

Though  the  dun  fox,  or  wild  hyena,  calls, 
And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between, 

Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan, 

There  the  true  silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 


DEATH. 

IT  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh 
This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speechless  flight ; 

That  sometime  these  bright  stars,  that  now  reply 
In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in  night ; 
That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite, 

And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to  flow ; 
That  thoughts  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  spright 

Be  lapp'd  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below ; 

It  is  not  death  to  know  this, — but  to  know 
That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  new  graves 

In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 
So  duly  and  so  oft, — and  when  grass  waves 

Over  the  past-away,  there  may  be  then 

No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


339 


A  RUSTIC  ODE, 

OH  !  well  may  poets  make  a  fuss 
In  summer  time,  and  sigh,  "  O  rus  !" 

Of  London  pleasures  sick  : 
My  heart  is  all  at  pant  to  rest 
In  greenwood  shades, — my  eyes  detest 

This  endless  meal  of  brick ! 
What  joy  have  I  in  June's  return  ? 
My  feet  are  parch'd,  my  eyeballs  burn  ; 

I  scent  no  flowery  gust: 
But  faint  the  flagging  zephyr  springs, 
With  dry  Macadam  on  its  wings, 

And.  turns  me  "  dust  to  dust." 
My  sun  his  daily  course  renews 
Due  east,  but  with  no  eastern  dews ; 

The  path  is  dry  and  hot ! 
His  setting  shows  more  tamely  still, 
He  sinks  behind  no  purple  hill, 

But  down  a  chimney's  pot! 

Oh  !  but  to  hear  the  milk-maid  blithe, 
Or  early  mower  whet  his  scythe 

The  dewy  meads  among! 
My  grass  is  of  that  sort, — alas ! 
That  makes  no  hay,  call'd  sparrow-grass 

By  folks  of  vulgar  tongue ! 

Oh  !  but  to  smell  the  woodbine  sweet ! 
I  think  of  cowslip-cups, — but  meet 

With  very  vile  rebuffs  ! 
For  meadow  buds,  I  get  a  whiff 
Of  Cheshire  cheese,  or  only  sniff 

The  turtle  made  at  Cuff's. 

How  tenderly  Rousseau  reviewed 
His  periwinkles  !  mine  are  stew'd  ! 

My  rose  blooms  on  a  gown ! 
I  hunt  in  vain  for  eglantine, 
And  find  my  blue-bell  on  the  sign 

That  marks  the  Bell  and  Crown  ! 

Where  are  ye,  birds !  that  blithely  wing 
From  tree  to  tree,  and  gayly  sing 

Or  mourn  in  thickets  deep? 
My  cuckoo  has  some  ware  to  sell, 
The  watchmen  is  my  Philomel, 

My  blackbird  is  a  sweep  ! 

Where  are  ye,  linnet !  lark !  and  thrush  ! 
That  perch  on  leafy  bough  and  bush, 

And  tune  the  various  song? 
Two  hurdy-gurdis,  and  a  poor 
Street-Handel  grinding  at  my  door, 

Are  all  rny  "  tuneful  throng." 

Where  are  ye,  early-purling  streams, 
Whose  waves  reflect  the  morning  beams, 

And  colours  of  the  skies  ? 
My  rills  are  only  puddle-drains 
From  shambles,  or  reflect  the  stains 

Of  calimanco-dyes. 

Sweet  are  the  little  brooks  that  run 
O'er  pebbles  glancing  in  the  sun, 

Singing  in  soothing  tones: 
Not  thus  the  city  streamlets  flow ; 
Thoy  make  no  music  as  they  go, 

Though  never  "  off  the  stones." 


Where  are  ye,  pastoral,  pretty  sheep, 
That  wont  to  bleat,  and  frisk,  and  leap 

Beside  your  woolly  dams  ? 
Alas  !  instead  of  harmless  crooks, 
My  Corydons  use  iron  hooks, 

And  skin — not  shear — the  lambs. 

The  pipe  whereon,  in  olden  day, 
The  Arcadian  herdsmen  used  to  play 

Sweetly,  here  soundeth  not ; 
But  merely  breathes  unwelcome  fumes, 
Meanwhile  the  city  boor  consumes 

The  rank  weed — "  piping  hot." 

All  rural  things  are  vilely  mock'd, 
On  every  hand  the  sense  is  shock'd 

With  objects  hard  to  bear : 
Shades — vernal  shades  !  where  wine  is  sold ! 
And  for  a  turfy  bank,  behold 

An  Ingram's  rustic  chair! 

Where  are  ye,  London  meads  and  bowers, 
And  gardens  redolent  of  flowers 

Wherein  the  zephyr  wons  1 
Alas  !  Moor  Fields  are  fields  no  more  ! 
See  Hatton's  Garden  bi'ick'd  all  o'er ; 

And  that  bare  wood, — St.  John's. 

No  pastoral  scene  procures  me  peace ; 

I  hold  no  leasowes  in  my  lease, 

No  cot  set  round  with  trees : 
No  sheep-white  hill  my  dwelling  flanks; 
And  omnium  furnishes  my  banks 

With  brokers,  not  with  bees. 

Oh !  well  may  poets  make  a  fuss 
In  summer  time,  and  sigh,  "  O  rus !" 

Of  city  pleasures  sick  : 
My  heart  is  all  at  pant  to  rest 
In  greenwood  shades, — my  eyes  detest 

This  endless  meal  of  brick. 


FROM  AN  ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY. 

OH  !  clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art  mine, 
And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss; 

For  tears  must  flow  to  wash  away 

A  thought  that  shows  so  stern  as  this : 

Forgive,  if  some  while  I  forget, 
In  wo  to  come,  the  present  bliss. 

As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 
Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis, 
Even  so  the  dark  and  bright  will  kiss. 

The  sunniest  things  throw  sternest  shade, 
And  there  is  even  a  happiness 

That  makes  the  heart  afraid  ! 

Now  let  us  with  a  spell  invoke 

The  full-orb'd  moon  to  grieve  our  eyes; 
Not  bright,  not  bright,  but,  with  a  cloud 

Lapp'd  all  about  her,  let  her  rise 
All  pale  and  dim,  as  if  from  rest 
The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sun 

Had  crept  into  the  skies. 

The  moon  !  she  is  the  source  of  sighs, 


340 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


The  very  face  to  make  us  sad ; 
If  hut  to  think  in  other  times 

The  same  calm  quiet  look  she  had, 
As  if  the  world  held  nothing  base, 

Of  vile  and  mean,  of  fierce  and  bad  ; 
The  same  fair  light  that  shone  in  streams, 

The  fairy  lamp  that  charm'd  the  lad ; 
For  so  it  is,  with  spent  delights 

She  taunts  men's  brains,  and  makes  them  mad 
All  things  are  touch'd  with  melancholy, 

Born  of  the  secret  soul's  mistrust, 
To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 

Weigh'd  down  with  vile  degraded  dust; 
Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 

Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust, 
Like  the  sweet  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 

Oh  give  her,  then,  her  tribute  just, 
Her  sighs  and  tears,  and  musings  holy  ! 

There  is  no  music  in  the  life 
That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely ; 

There's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth, 
But  has  its  chord  in  melancholy. 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn  : 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  roses — red  and  white  ; 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups, 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing ; 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  : 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky  : 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 
To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


TO  A  COLD  BEAUTY. 

LADY,  wouldst  thou  heiress  be, 
To  winter's  cold  and  cruel  part  ? 

When  he  sets  the  rivers  free,  . 

Thou  dost  still  lock  up  thy  heart ; — 

Thou  that  shouldst  outlast  the  snow, 

But  in  the  whiteness  of  thy  brow  ? 

Scorn  and  cold  neglect  are  made 
For  winter  gloom  and  winter  wind, 

But  thou  wilt  wrong  the  summer  air, 
Breathing  it  to  words  unkind, — 

Breath  which  only  should 'belong 

To  love,  to  sunlight,  and  to  song  J 

When  the  little  buds  unclose, 

Red,  and  white,  and  pied,  and  blue, 

And  that  virgin  flower,  the  rose, 
Opes  her  heart  to  hold  the  dew, 

Wilt  thou  lock  thy  bosom  up 

With  no  jewel  in  its  cup? 

Let  not  cold  December  sit 

Thus  in  love's  peculiar  throne ; — 
Brooklets  are  not  prison'd  now, 

But  crystal  frosts  are  all  agone, 
And  that  which  hangs  upon  the  spray, 
It  is  no  snow,  but  flower  of  May  ! 


LOVE. 

LOVE,  dearest  lady,  such  as  I  would  speak, 
Lives  not  within  the  humour  of  the  eye; — 
Not  being  but  an  outward  phantasy, 

That  skims  the  surface  of  a  tinted  cheek, — 

Else  it  would  wane  with  beauty,  and  grow  weak, 
As  if  the  rose  made  summer, — and  so  lie 
Amongst  the  perishable  things  that  die, 

Unlike  the  love  which  I  would  give  and  seek : 
Whose  health  is  of  no  hue — to  feel  decay 

With  cheeks'  decay,  that  have  a  rosy  prime. 
Love  is  its  own  great  loveliness  alway, 

And  takes  new  lustre  from  the  touch  of  time ; 
Its  bough  owns  no  December  and  no  May, 

But  bears  its  blossom  into  winter's  clime. 


BY  A  LOVER. 

BY  every  sweet  tradition  of  true  hearts, 
Graven  by  time,  in  love  with  his  own  lore  ; 

By  all  old  martyrdoms  and  antique  smarts, 
Wherein  love  died  to  be  alive  the  more ; 
Yea,  by  the  sad  impression  on  the  shore, 

Left  by  the  drown'd  Leander,  to  endear 
That  coast  for  ever,  where  the  billow's  roar 

Moaneth  for  pity  in  the  poet's  ear ; 

By  Hero's  faith,  and  the  forboding  tear 
That  quench'd  her  brand's  last  twinkle  in  its  fall 

By  Sappho's  leap,  and  the  low  rustling  fear 
That  sigh'd  around  her  flight ;  I  swear  by  all, 

The  world  shall  find  such  pattern  in  my  act, 

As  if  love's  great  examples  still  were  lack'd. 


ROBERT    POLLOK. 


THIS  poet  was  born  of  parents  in  humble 
circumstances  at  Eaglesham,  in  Ayrshire,  in 
1799.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of 
Glasgow,  and  in  1827  took  orders  in  the  Scot- 
tish Secession  Church.  In  the  same  year  he 
published  The  Course  of  Time,  and,  on  account 
of  impaired  health,  left  Scotland  with  an  in- 
tention to  proceed  to  Italy,  but  died,  on  his 
way,  at  Southampton,  on  the  fifteenth  of  Sep- 
tember. 

The  Course  of  Time  was  written  during  his 
student  life,  and  when,  unfriended  and  un- 
known, he  offered  it  to  the  publishers  of  Edin- 
burgh, none  of  them  were  willing  to  bring  it 
out.  The  manuscript  was  fortunately  seen  by 
Professor  WILSON,  who  quickly  perceived  its 
merits,  and  effected  an  arrangement  between 
the  poet  and  Messrs.  Blackwood,  which  re- 
sulted in  its  publication.  The  plot  of  the 
poem  is  very  simple  :  The  events  of  time  are 
finished,  and  a  being  from  some  remote  world 
arrives  in  Paradise,  where  he  inquires  the 
meaning  of  the  hell  he  has  seen  on  his  way 


heavenward  ;  a  bard,  once  of  our  earth,  sings 
the  story  of  humanity,  from  the  beginning 
until  time  is  finished, 

the  righteous  saved,  the  wicked  damned, 

And  God's  eternal  government  approved. 

The  subject  is  a  noble  one,  and  in  the  poem 
there  are  graphic  conceptions  and  passages  of 
beauty  and  tenderness ;  but  it  is  disfigured  by 
amplifications  and  a  redundancy  of  moral  pic- 
tures ;  it  has  no  continuous  interest,  and  in 
parts  of  it  which  should  have  been  and  which 
the  author  endeavoured  to  make  the  most  im- 
pressive, particularly  those  in  which  he  sub- 
jects himself  to  a  comparison  with  DANTE 
and  MILTON,  he  utterly  failed. 

The  Course  of  Time  has  been  almost  uni- 
versally read.  I  have  been  informed  that  not 
less  than  twenty  editions  of  it  have  been  sold 
in  the  United  States,  and  it  has  been  fre- 
quently reprinted  in  Scotland.  For  its  popu- 
larity, however,  both  here  and  in  Great  Britain, 
it  is  more  indebted  to  its  theology  than  to  its 
merits  as  a  poem. 


BYRON. 

ADMIRE  the  goodness  of  Almighty  God  ! 
He  riches  gave,  he  intellectual  strength, 
To  few,  and  therefore  none  commands  to  be 
Or  rich,  or  learn'd ;  nor  promises  reward 
Of  peace  to  these.     On  all,  He  moral  worth 
Bestow'd,  and  moral  tribute  ask'd  from  all. 
And  who  that  could  not  pay ?   who  born  so  poor, 
Of  intellect  so  mean,  as  not  to  know 
Whatseem'd  the  best;  and,  knowing,  might  not  do1? 
As  not  to  know  what  God  and  conscience  bade, 
And  what  they  bade  not  able  to  obey  ? 
And  he,  who  acted  thus,  fulfill'd  the  law 
Eternal,  and  its  promise  reaped  of  peace  ; 
Found  peace  this  wav  alone :  who  sought  it  else, 
Sought  mellow  grapes  beneath  the  icy  pole, 
Sought  blooming  roses  on  the  cheek  of  death, 
Sought  substance  in  a  world  of  fleeting  shades. 

Take  one  example,  to  our  purpose  quite, 
A  man  of  rank,  and  of  capacious  soul, 
Who  riches  had  and  fame,  beyond  desire, 
An  heir  of  flattery,  to  titles  born, 
And  reputation,  and  luxurious  life ; 
Yet,  not  content  with  ancestorial  name, 
Or  to  be  known  because  his  fathers  were, 
He  on  this  height  hereditary  stood, 
And,  gazing  higher,  purposed  in  his  heart 


To  take  another  step.     Above  him  seem'd, 
Alone,  the  mount  of  song,  the  lofty  seat 
Of  canonized  bards  ;  and  thitherward, 
By  nature  taught,  and  inward  melody, 
In  prime  of  youth,  he  bent  his  eagle  eye.      [read  ; 
No  cost  was  spared.     What  books  he  wish'd,  he 
What  sage  to  hear,  he  heard  ;  what  scenes  to  see, 
He  saw.     And  first  in  rambling  school-boy  days 
Britannia's  mountain-walks,  and  heath-girt  lakes, 
And  story-telling  glens,  and  founts,  and  brooks, 
Arid  maids,  as  dew-drops  pure  and  fair,  his  soul 
With  grandeur  fill'd,  and  melody,  and  lovte. 
Then  travel  came,  and  took  him  where  he  wish'd. 
He  cities  saw,  and  courts,  and  princely  pomp ; 
And  mused  alone  on  ancient  mountain-brows ; 
And  mused  on  battle-fields,  where  valour  fought 
In  other  days  ;  and  mused  on  ruins  gray 
With  years ;  and  drank  from  old  and  fabulous  wells, 
And  pluck'd  the  vine  that  first-born  prophets  pluck'd, 
And  mused  on  famous  tombs,  and  on  the  wave 
Of  ocean  mused,  and  on  the  desert  waste ; 
The  heavens  and  earth  of  every  country  saw. 
Where'er  the  old  inspiring  genii  dwelt, 
Aught  that  could  rouse,  expand,  refine  the  soul, 
Thither  he  went,  and  meditated  there. 

He  touch'd  his  harp,  and  nations  heard,  entranced, 
As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing  source, 
Rapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  numbers  flow'd, 
2  F  2  341 


342 


ROBERT    POLLOK. 


And  open'd  new  fountains  in  the  human  heart. 
Where  fancy  halted,  weary  in  her  flight, 
In  other  men,  his,  fresh  as  morning,  rose, 
And  soar'd  untrodden  heights,  and  seem'd  at  home 
Where  angels  bashful  look'd.  Others,  though  great, 
Beneath  their  argument  seem'd  struggling  whiles  ; 
He  from  above  descending  stoop'd  to  touch 
The  loftiest  thought ;  and  proudly  stoop'd,  as  though 
It  scarce  deserved  his  verse.     With  Nature's  self 
He  seem'd  an  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest 
At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  « the  ocean's  mane," 
And  play'd  familiar  with  his  hoary  locks; 
Stood  on  the  Alps,  stood  on  the  Apennines, 
And  with  the  thunder  talk'd,  as  friend  to  friend  ; 
And  wove  his  garland  of  the  lightning's  wing, 
In  sportive  twist,  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Which,  as  the  footsteps  of  the  dreadful  God, 
Marching  upon  the  storm  in  vengeance,  seem'd ; 
Then  turn'd,  and  with  the  grasshopper,  who  sung 
His  evening  song  beneath  his  feet,  conversed. 
Suns,  moons,  and  stars,  and  clouds,  his  sisters  were ; 
Rocks,  mountains,meteors,seasand  winds  andstorms 
His  brothers,  younger  brothers,  whom  he  scarce 
As  equals  deem'd.     All  passions  of  all  men, 
The  wild  and  tame,  the  gentle  and  severe ; 
All  thoughts,  all  maxims,  sacred  and  profane ; 
All  creeds,  all  seasons,  Time,  Eternity  ; 
All  that  was  hated,  and  all  that  was  dear ; 
All  that  was  hoped,  all  that  was  feared,  by  man ; 
He  toss'd  about,  as  tempest,  wither'd  leaves, 
Then,  smiling,  look'd  upon  the  wreck  he  made. 
With  terror  now  he  froze  the  cowering  blood, 
And  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  tenderness ; 
Yet  would  not  tremble,  would  not  weep  himself; 
But  back  into  his  soul  retired,  alone, 
Dark,  sullen,  proud,  gazing  contemptuously 
On  hearts  and  passions  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
So  ocean  from  the  plains  his  waves  had  late 
To  desolation  swept,  retired  in  pride, 
Exulting  in  the  glory  of  his  might, 
And  seem'd  to  mock  the  ruin  he  had  wrought. 

As  some  fierce  comet  of  tremendous  size, 
To  which  the  stars  did  reverence,  as  it  pass'd, 
So  he  through  learning  and  through  fancy  took 
His  flight  sublime,  and  on  the  loftiest  top 
Of  fame's  dread  mountain  sat;  not  soil'd  and  worn, 
As  if  he  from  the  earth  had  labour'd  up ; 
But  as  some  bird  of  heavenly  plumage  fair, 
He  look'd,  which  down  from  higher  regions  came, 
And  perch'd  it  there,  to  see  what  lay  beneath. 
The  nations  gazed,  and  wonder'd  much,  and  prais'd. 
Critics  before  him  fell  in  humble  plight, 
Confounded  fell,  and  made  debasing  signs    [selves 
To  catch  his  eye,  and  stretch'd,  and  swell'd  them- 
To  bursting  nigh,  to  utter  bulky  words 
Of  admiration  vast :  and  many,  too, 
Many  that  aim'd  to  imitate  his  flight, 
With  weaker -wing,  unearthly  fluttering  made, 
And  gave  abundant  sport  to  after  days.        [much, 

Great  man  !  the  nations  gazed,  and  wonder'd 
And  praised  ;  and  many  call'd  his  evil  good. 
Wits  wrote  in  favour  of  his  wickedness, 
And  kings  to  do  him  honour  took  delight. 
Thus,  full  of  titles,  flattery,  honour,  fame, 


Beyond  desire,  beyond  ambition,  full, 

He  died.    He  died  of  what]    Of  wretchedness; — 

Drank  every  cup  of  joy,  heard  every  trump 

Of  fame,  drank  early,  deeply  drank,  drank  draughts 

That  common  millions  might  have  quench'd;  then 

Of  thirst,  because  there  was  no  more  to  drink,     [died 

His  goddess,  Nature,  wooed,  embraced,  enjoy'd, 

Fell  from  his  arms,  abhorr'd ;  his  passions  died, 

Died,  all  but  dreary,  solitary  pride ; 

And  all  his  sympathies  in  being  died. 

As  some  ill-guided  bark,  well  built  and  tall, 

Which  angry  tides  cast  out  on  desert  shore, 

And  then,  retiring,  left  it  there  to  rot 

And  moulder  in  the  winds  and  rains  of  heaven ; 

So  he,  cut  from  the  sympathies  of  life, 

And  cast  ashore  from  pleasure's  boisterous  surge, 

A  wandering,  weary,  worn,  and  wretched  thing, 

Scorch'd,  and  desolate,  and  blasted  soul, 

A  gloomy  wilderness  of  dying  thought, — 

Repined,  and  groan'd,  and  wither'd  from  the  earth. 

His  groanings  fill'd  the  land,  his  numbers  fill'd ; 

And  yet  he  seem'd  ashamed  to  groan :  Poor  man ! — 

Ashamed  to  ask,  and  yet  he  needed  help. 

Proof  this,  beyond  all  lingering  of  doubt, 
That  not  with  natural  or  mental  wealth 
Was  God  delighted,  or  his  peace  secured ; 
That  not  in  natural  or  mental  wealth 
Was  human  happiness  or  grandeur  found. 
Attempt,  how  monstrous,  and  how  surely  vain  ! 
With  things  of  earthly  sort,  with  aught  but  God, 
With  aught  but  moral  excellence,  truth,  and  love 
To  satisfy  and  fill  the  immortal  soul ! 
Attempt,  vain  inconceivably  !  attempt, 
To  satisfy  the  ocean  with  a  drop, 
To  marry  immortality  to  death, 
And  with  the  unsubstantial  shade  of  time, 
To  fill  the  embrace  of  all  eternity  ! 


THE   MILLENNIUM. 

THE  animals,  as  once  in  Eden,  lived 
In  peace.     The  wolf  dwelt  with  the  lamb,  the  bear 
And  leopard  with  the  ox.     With  looks  of  love, 
The  tiger  and  the  scaly  crocodile 
Together  met,  at  Gambia's  palmy  wave. 
Perch'd  on  the  eagle's  wing,  the  bird  of  song, 
Singing,  arose,  and  visited  the  sun  ; 
And  with  the  falcon  sat  the  gentle  lark. 
The  little  child  leap'd  from  his  mother's  arms 
And  stroked  the  crested  snake,  and  roll'd  unhurt 
Among  his  speckled  waves, and  wish'd  him  home; 
And  sauntering  school-boys,  slow  returning,  play'd 
At  eve  about  the  lion's  den,  and  wove, 
Into  his  shaggy  mane,  fantastic  flowers. 
To  meet  the  husbandman,  early  abroad, 
Hasted  the  deer,  and  waved  its  woody  head  ; 
And  round  his  dewy  steps,  the  hare,  unscared, 
Sported,  and  toy'd  familiar  with  his  dog. 
The  flocks  and  herds,  o'er  hill  and  valley  spread, 
Exulting,  cropp'd  the  ever-budding  herb, 
The  desert  blossom'd,  and  the  barren  sung. 
Justice  and  Mercy,  Holiness  and  Love, 
Among  the  people  walk'd,  Messiah  reign'd, 
And  earth  kept  jubilee  a  thousand  years. 


ROBERT    POLLOK. 


343 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIM- 
SELF. 

IN  humble  dwelling  born,  retired,  remote ; 
In  rural  quietude,  'mong  hills,  and  streams, 
And  melancholy  deserts,  where  the  sun 
Saw,  as  he  pass'd,  a  shepherd  only,  here 
And  there,  watching  his  little  flock,  or  heard 
The  ploughman  talking  to  his  steers ;  his  hopes, 
His  morning  hopes,  awoke  before  him,  smiling, 
Among  the  dews  and  holy  mountain  airs; 
And  fancy  colour'd  them  with  every  hue 
Of  heavenly  loveliness.     But  soon  his  dreams 
Of  childhood  fled  away,  those  rainbow  dreams, 
So  innocent  and  fair,  that  wither'd  age, 
Even  at  the  grave,  cleared  up  his  dusty  eye, 
And  passing  all  between,  look'd  fondly  back 
To  see  them  once  again,  ere  he  departed : 
These  fled  away,  and  anxious  thought,  that  wish'd 
To  go,  yet  whither  knew  not  well  to  go, 
Possess'd  his  soul,  and  held  it  still  awhile. 
He  listen'd,  and  heard  from  far  the  voice  of  fame, 
Heard  and  was  chann'd  ;  and  deep  and  sudden  vow 
Of  resolution  made  to  be  renown'd  ; 
And  deeper  vow'd  again  to  keep  his  vow. 
His  parents  saw,  his  parents  whom  God  made 
Of  kindest  heart,  saw,  and  indulged  his  hope. 
The  ancient  page  he  turn'd,  read  much,  thought 

much, 

And  with  old  bards  of  honourable  name 
Measured  his  soul  severely ;  and  look'd  up 
To  fame,  ambitious  of  no  second  place. 
Hope  grew  from  inward  faith,  and  promised  fair. 
And  out  before  him  open'd  many  a  path 
Ascending,  where  the  laurel  highest  waved 
Her  branch  of  endless  green.     He  stood  admiring ; 
But  stood,  admired,  not  long.    The  harp  he  seized, 
The  harp  he  loved,  loved  better  than  his  life, 
The  harp  which  utter'd  deepest  notes,  and  held 
The  ear  of  thought  a  captive  to  its  song. 
He  search'd  and  meditated  much,  and  whiles, 
With  rapturous  hand,  in  secret  touch'd  the  lyre, 
Aiming  at  glorious  strains ;  and  search'd  again 
For  theme  dese.ving  of  immortal  verse; 
Chose  now,  and  now  refused,  unsatisfied ; 
Pleased,  then  displeased,  and  hesitating  still. 

Thus  stood  his  mind,  when  round  him  came  a 

cloud, 

Slowly  and  heavily  it  came,  a  cloud 
Of  ills  we  mention  not:  enough  to  say, 
'Twas  cold,  and  dead,  impenetrable  gloom. 
He  saw  its  dark  approach,  and  saw  his  hopes, 
One  after  one,  put  out,  as  nearer  still 
It  drew  his  soul ;  but  fainted  not  at  first, 
Fainted  not  soon.     He  knew  the  lot  of  man 
Was  trouble,  and  prepared  to  bear  the  worst; 
Endure  whate'er  should  come,  without  a  sigh 
Endure,  and  drink,  even  to  the  very  dregs, 
The  bitterest  cup  that  time  could  measure  out; 
And,  having  done,  look  up,  and  ask  for  more. 

He  call'd  philosophy,  and  with  his  heart 
Reason'd.     He  call'd  religion,  too,  but  call'd 
Reluctantly,  and  therefore  was  not  heard. 
Ashamed  to  be  o'ermatch'd  by  earthly  woes, 
He  sought,  and  sought  with  eye  that  dimm'd  apace, 
j 


To  find  some  avenue  to  light,  some  place 
On  which  to  rest  a  hope ;  but  sought  in  vain. 
Darker  and  darker  still  the  darkness  grew. 
At  length  he  sunk,  and  disappointment  stood 
His  only  comforter,  and  mournfully 
Told  all  was  past.     His  interest  in  life, 
In  being,  ceased :  and  now  he  seem'd  to  feel, 
And  shudder'd  as  he  felt,  his  powers  of  mind 
Decaying  in  the  spring-time  of  his  day. 
The  vigorous,  weak  became ;  the  clear,  obscure ; 
Memory  gave  up  her  charge ;  Decision  reel'd  ; 
j  And  from  her  flight,  Fancy  return'd,  return'd 
Because  she  found  no  nourishment  abroad. 
The  blue  heavens  wither'd,  and  the  moon,  and  sun, 
And  all  the  stars,  and  the  green  earth,  and  morn 
And  evening,  wither'd ;  and  the  eyes,  and  smiles, 
And  faces  of  all  men  and  women,  wither'd, 
Wither'd  to  him ;  and  all  the  universe, 
Like  something  which  had  been,  appear'd,  but  now 
Was  dead  and  mouldering  fast  away.     He  tried 
No  more  to  hope,  wish'd  to  forget  his  vow, 
Wish'd  to  forget  his  harp ;  then  ceased  to  wish 
That  was  his  last :  enjoyment  now  was  done. 
He  had  no  hope,  no  wish,  and  scarce  a  fear. 
Of  being  sensible,  and  sensible 
Of  loss,  he  as  some  atom  seem'd,  which  God 
Had  made  superfluously,  and  needed  not 
To  build  creation  with ;  but  back  again 
To  nothing  threw,  and  left  it  in  the  void, 
With  everlasting  sense  that  once  it  was. 

Oh !  who  can  tell  what  days,  what  nights  he  spent, 
Of  tideless,  waveless,  sailless,  shoreless  wo  ! 
And  who  can  tell  how  many,  glorious  once, 
To  others  and  themselves  of  promise  full, 
Conducted  to  this  pass  of  human  thought, 
This  wilderness  of  intellectual  death, 
Wasted  and  pined,  and  vanish'd  from  the  earth, 
Leaving  no  vestige  of  memorial  there ! 

It  was  not  so  with  him.     When  thus  he  lay, 
Forlorn  of  heart,  wither'd  and  desolate, 
As  leaf  of  autumn,  which  the  wolfish  winds, 
Selecting  from  its  falling  sisters,  chase, 
Far  from  its  native  grove,  to  lifeless  wastes, 
And  leave  it  there  alone,  to  be  forgotten 
Eternally,  God  pass'd  in  mercy  by — 
His  praise  be  ever  new ! — and  on  him  breathed, 
And  bade  him  live,  and  put  into  his  hands 
A  holy  harp,  into  his  lips  a  song, 
That  roll'd  its  numbers  down  the  tide  of  time: 
Ambitious  now,  but  little  to  be  praised 
Of  men  alone  ;  ambitious  most,  to  be 
Approved  of  God,  the  Judge  of  all ;  and  have 
His  name  recorded  in  the  book  of  life. 

Such  things  were  disappointment  and  remorse ; 
And  oft  united  both,  as  friends  severe, 
To  teach  men  wisdom ;  but  the  fool,  untaught, 
Was  foolish  still.     His  ear  he  stopp'd,  his  eyes 
He  shut,  and  blindly,  deafly  obstinate, 
Forced  desperately  his  way  from  wo  to  wo. 

One  place,  one  only  place,  there  was  on  earth, 
Where  no  man  e'er  was  fool,  however  mad. 
"  Men  may  live  fools,  but  fools  they  cannot  die." 
Ah  !  'twas  a  truth  most  true  ;  and  sung  in  time, 
And  to  the  sons  of  men,  by  one  well  known 
On  earth  for  lofty  ven-e  and  lofty  sense. 


344 


ROBERT    POLLOK. 


REPUTATION. 

GOOD  name  was  dear  to  all.     Without  it,  none 
Could  soundly  sleep,  even  on  a  royal  bed, 
Or  drink  with  relish  from  a  cup  of  gold ; 
And  with  it,  on  his  borrow'd  straw,  or  by 
The  leafless  hedge,  beneath  the  open  heavens, 
The  weary  beggar  took  untroubled  rest. 
It  was  a  music  of  most  heavenly  tone, 
To  which  the  heart  leap'd  joyfully,  and  all 
The  spirits  danced.     For  honest  fame,  men  laid 
Their  heads  upon  the  block,  and,  while  the  axe 
Descended,  look'd  and  smiled.     It  was  of  price 
Invaluable.     Riches,  health,  repose, 
Whole  kingdoms,  life,  were  given  for  it,  and  he 
Who  got  it  was  the  winner  still ;  and  he 
Who  sold  it  durst  not  open  his  ear,  nor  look 
On  human  face,  he  knew  himself  so  vile. 


RUMOUR  AND  SLANDER. 

RUMOUR  was  the  messenger 
Of  defamation,  and  so  swift  that  none 
Could  be  the  first  to  tell  an  evil  tale ; 
And  was,  withal,  so  infamous  for  lies, 
That  he  who  of  her  sayings,  on  his  creed, 
The  fewest  enter'd,  was  deem'd  wisest  man. 
The  fool,  and  many  who  had  credit,  too, 
For  wisdom,  grossly  swallow'd  all  she  said, 
Unsifted  ;  and  although,  at  every  word, 
They  heard  her  contradict  herself,  and  saw 
Hourly  they  were  imposed  upon  and  mock'd, 
Yet  still  they  ran  to  hear  her  speak,  and  stared, 
And  wonder'd  much,  and  stood  aghast,  and  said 
It  could  not  be;  and,  while  they  blush'd  for  shame 
At  their  own  faith,  and  seem'd  to  doubt,  believed, 
And  whom  they  met,  with  many  sanctions,  told. 
So  did  experience  fail  to  teach  ; — so  hard 
It  was  to  learn  this  simple  truth, — confirm'd 
At  every  corner  by  a  thousand  proofs, — 
That  common  fame  most  impudently  lied. 

'Twas  slander  fill'd  her  mouth  with  lying  words, 
Slander,  the  foulest  whelp  of  sin.     The  man 
In  whom  this  spirit  enter'd  was  undone. 
His  tongue  was  set  on  fire  of  hell,  his  heart 
Was  black  as  death,  his  legs  we/e  faint  with  haste 
To  propagate  the  lie  his  soul  had  framed, 
His  pillow  was  the  peace  of  families 
Destroy'd,  the  sigh  of  innocence  reproach'd, 
Broken  friendships,  and  the  strife  of  brotherhoods, 
Yet  did  he  spare  his  sleep,  and  hear  the  clock 
Number  the  midnight  watches,  on  his  bed, 
Devising  mischief  more ;  and  early  rose, 
And  made  most  hellish  meals  of  good  men's  names. 

From  door  to  door  you  might  have  seen  him  speed, 
Or  placed  amidst  a  group  of  gaping  fools, 
And  whispering  in  their  ears  with  his  foul  lips. 
Peace  fled  the  neighbourhood  in  which  he  made 
His  haunts ;  and,  like  a  moral  pestilence, 
Before  his  breath  the  healthy  shoots  and  blooms 
Of  social  joy  and  happiness  decay 'd. 


Fools  only  in  his  company  were  seen, 

And  those  forsaken  of  God,  and  to  themselves 

Given  up.  The  prudent  shunn'd  him  and  his  house 

As  one  who  had  a  deadly  moral  plague. 

And  fain  would  all  have  shunn'd  him  at  the  day 

Of  judgment;  but  in  vain.     All  who  gave  ear 

With  greediness,  or  wittingly  their  tongues 

Made  herald  to  his  lies,  around  him  wail'd ; 

While  on  his  face,  thrown  back  by  injured  men, 

In  characters  of  ever-blushing  shame, 

Appear'd  ten  thousand  slanders,  all  his  own. 


WISDOM. 

WISDOM  is  humble,  said  the  voice  of  God. 
,'Tis  proud,  the  world  replied.     Wisdom,  said  God, 
Forgives,  forbears,  and  suffers,  not  for  fear 
Of  man,  but  God.     Wisdom  revenges,  said 
The  world,  is  quick  and  deadly  of  resentment, 
Thrusts  at  the  very  shadow  of  affront, 
And  hastes,  by  death,  to  wipe  its  honour  clean. 
Wisdom,  said  God,  loves  enemies,  entreats, 
Solicits,  begs  for  peace.     Wisdom,  replied 
The  world,  hates  enemies,  will  not  ask  peace, 
Conditions  spurns,  and  triumphs  in  their  fall. 
Wisdom  mistrusts  itself,  and  leans  on  heaven, 
Said  God.     It  trusts  and  leans  upon  itself, 
The  world  replied.      Wisdom  retires,  said  God, 
And  counts  it  bravery  to  bear  reproach, 
And  shame,  and  lowly  poverty,  upright; 
And  weeps  with  all  who  have  just  cause  to  weep. 
Wisdom,  replied  the  world,  struts  forth  to  gaze, 
Treads  the  broad  stage  of  life  with  clamorous  foot, 
Attracts  all  praises,  counts  it  bravery 
Alone  to  wield  the  sword,  and  rush  on  death ; 
And  never  weeps,  but  for  its  own  disgrace. 
Wisdom,  said  God,  is  highest,  when  it  stoops 
Lowest  before  the  Holy  Throne ;  throws  down 
Its  crown,  abased  ;  forgets  itself,  admires, 
And  breathes  adoring  praise.  There  wisdom  stoops, 
Indeed,  the  world  replied,  there  stoops,  because 
It  must,  but  stoops  with  dignity  ;  and  thinks 
And  meditates  the  while  of  inward  worth. 

Thus  did  Almighty  God,  and  thus  the  world, 
Wisdom  define :  and  most  the  world  believed, 
And  boldly  call'd  the  truth  of  God  a  lie. 
Hence,  he  that  to  the  worldly  wisdom  shaped 
His  character,  became  the  favourite 
Of  men,  was  honourable  term'd,  a  man 
Of  spirit,  noble,  glorious,  lofty  soul ! 
And  as  he  cross'd  the  earth  in  chase  of  dreams, 
Received  prodigious  shouts  of  warm  applause. 
Hence,  who  to  godly  wisdom  framed  his  life, 
Was  counted  mean,  and  spiritless,  and  vile ; 
And  as  he  walk'd  obscurely  in  the  path     [tongue, 
Which   led  to   heaven,  fools  hiss'd  with  serpent 
And  pour'd  contempt  upon  his  holy  head, 
And  pour'd  contempt  on  all  who  praised  his  name. 

But  false  as  this  account  of  wisdom  was, 
The  world's  I  mean,  it  was  his  best,  the  creed 
Of  sober,  grave,  and  philosophic  men, 
Wilh  much  research  and  cogitation  framed, 
Of  men  who  with  the  vulgar  scorn'd  to  sit. 


T.    B.    MACAULAY. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  is  the  son 
of  ZACHARY  MACAULAY,  principally  distin- 
guished as  a  philanthropist,  and  as  the  coadju- 
tor of  CLARKSON  in  the  cause  of  Anti-slavery. 
He  was  educated  at  CAMBRIDGE,  and  gradu- 
ated with  the  highest  honours.  While  at 
college  he  was  a  contributor  to  "Knight's 
Quarterly  Magazine,"  and  many  of  his  best 
ballads  were  first  published  in  that  periodical. 
He  chose  the  law  for  his  profession.  In  1825 
his  celebrated  article  on  MILTON  appeared  in 
the  "Edinburgh  Review,"  and  excited  much 
attention  and  panegyric.  This  was  the  first 
of  a  series  of  papers  which  have  been  con- 
tinued at  intervals  to  the  present  day,  all 
displaying  strong  peculiarities  of  character, 
analytical  acuteness,  a  vast  range  of  know- 
ledge, considerable  dialectical  skill,  great  in- 
dependence and  affluence  of  thought,  and 
much  splendour,  energy,  and  eloquence  of  dic- 
tion. He  soon  after  entered  political  life,  was 
elected  to  parliament,  and  became  one  of  the 
sturdiest,  most  eloquent,  and  most  efficient  of 
the  supporters  of  the  Reform  Bill  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  His  various  speeches,  from 
1831  to  1844,  as  reported  in  "Hansard's  Par- 
liamentary Debates,"  are  characterized  by 


HORATIUS. 

A  LAY  MADE  ABOUT  THE  YEAR  OF  THE  CITY  CCCLX. 

LARS  PORSEIVA  of  Clusiura 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west,  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

East  and  west,  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower,  and  town,  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home, 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 
44 


nearly  the  same  qualities  of  manner  which 
distinguish  his  written  compositions,  though 
pervaded  often  by  even  more  directness,  in- 
tensity, fire,  and  intellectual  hardihood.  They 
are  not  included  in  the  collection  of  his  mis- 
cellaneous writings.  On  the  triumph  of  his 
party  he  was  sent  on  a  lucrative  commission 
to  India.  He  was  Secretary  at  War  under 
Lord  MELBOURNE'S  administration,  but,  of 
course,  shared  in  the  defeat  of  the  Whigs.  He 
is  said  to  be  now  engaged  on  an  historical 
work,  which  will  try  the  whole  power  and 
resources  of  his  mind. 

As  a  poet,  MACAULAY  displays  the  same 
vehemence  and  energy,  the  same  rush  of  style, 
which  have  conferred  such  popularity  on  his 
prose.  His  earliest  efforts  in  the  ballad-style 
are  probably  his  best,  though  his  "  Lays  of 
Ancient  Rome"  are  thought  to  exhibit  more 
true  imagination  than  he  has  shown  in  any 
of  his  preceding  works.  The  sparkle  and 
glow  of  his  verse  always  take  strong  hold 
upon  the  sensibility  and  fancy,  and  of  all 
writers,  he  is  the  last  who  could  be  accused 
of  tediousness.  The  extracts  we  give  will 
better  illustrate  his  manner  than  the  most 
laboured  analysis. 


The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a  stately  market-place; 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain  ; 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Appennine ; 

From  lordly  Volaterrse, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old ; 
From  seagirt  Populonia, 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain-tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky  ; 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisse, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 
Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 

Heavy  with  fair-hair'd  slaves  ; 

345 


346 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 


From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 
Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers ; 

From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 
Her  diadem  of  towers. 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 

Drop  in  dark  A  user's  rill; 
Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Ciminian  hill ; . 
Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear  ; 
Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill ; 
No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  green  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Unwatch'd  along  Clitumnus 

Grazes  the  milk-white  steer ; 
Unharm'd  the  water-fowl  may  dip 

In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year,  old  men  shall  reap ; 
This  year,  young  boys  in  Umbro 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep  ; 
And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year,  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls, 

Whose  sires  have  inarch'd  to  Rome. 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand  : 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er, 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 

And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given  > 
«  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena ; 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven ; 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium's  royal  dome  ; 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome." 

And  now  halh  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men  ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array, 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 

Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 
And  many  a  banish'd  Roman, 

And  many  a  stout  ally  ; 
And  with  a  mighty  following 

To  join  the  muster  came 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 


But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright : 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city, 

The  throng  stopp'd  up  the  ways ; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

For  aged  folk  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child, 
And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled, 
And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, . 
And  troops  of  sun-burnt  husbandmen 

With  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 

Laden  with  skins  of  wine, 
And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep, 

And  endless  herds  of  kine, 
And  endless  trains  of  wagons 

That  creak'd  beneath  their  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 

Choked  every  roaring  gate. 

Now,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  fathers  of  the  city, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands  ; 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote, 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain  ; 
Astur  hath  storm'd  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

I  wis  in  all  the  senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold, 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River-gate ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spoke  the  consul  roundly  : 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 
All  wild  with  haste  and  fear ; 

"  To  arms  !  to  arms !  Sir  Consul ; 
Lars  Porsena  is  here." 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY.                                   347 

On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

The  consul  fix'd  his  eye, 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 

And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

And  how  can  man  die  better 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 

For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 
Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come  ; 

And  the  temples  of  his  gods, 

And  louder  still  and  still  more  loud, 

"  And  for  the  tender  mother 

From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 

Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud, 
The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 

And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 
His  baby  at  her  breast, 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may  ; 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly, 
Above  that  glimmering  line, 
Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 
Of*  twelve  fb.ir  cities  slime  * 

I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 
Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 
May  well  be  stopp'd  by  three. 

But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 
Was  highest  of  them  all, 

Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  1" 

The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius  ; 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he  : 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 
Now  might  the  burghers  know, 
By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest, 
Each  warlike  Lucumo. 
There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 
On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen  ; 

«  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius; 
Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

And  Astur  of  the  four-fold  shield, 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  consul, 

Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield, 

"  As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 

Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 

And  straight  against  that  great  array 

And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 

By  reedy  Thrasymene. 

For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Lars  Porsona  of  Clusium 

Sate  in  his  ivory  car. 

Then  none  was  for  a  party  ; 

By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Then  all  were  for  the  state  ; 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name  ; 

Then  the  great  man  help'd  the  poor, 

And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great  : 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

Then  lands  were  fairly  portion'd  ; 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold  : 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 

Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 
But  spate  towards  him  and  hiss'd  ; 

More  hateful  than  a  foe, 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high, 

No  child  but  scream'd  out  curses, 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold  ; 

But  the  consul's  brow  was  sad, 

Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

And  the  consul's  speech  was  low, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  darkly  look'd  he  at  the  wall, 
And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
«  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 
Before  the  bridge  goes  down  ; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 
What  hope  to  save  the  town  1" 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 
Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
The  consul  was  the  foremost  man 
To  take  in  hand  an  axe  ; 
And  Fathers  mix'd  with  commons 
Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

The  captain  of  the  gate  : 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

348 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 


Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Roll'd  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent 

And  look'd  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose  : 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  mighty  mass ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  pass; 

Aunus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines  ; 
And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines  ; 
And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartius  hurl'd  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath : 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth : 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust ; 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clash'd  in  the  bloody  dust. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rush'd  on  the  Roman  Three ; 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea ; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar, 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Corsa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughter'd  men, 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns : 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low  : 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
"  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "  fell  pirate ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice  accursed  sail." 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 
Was  heard  amongst  the  foes. 


A  wild  and  wrathful  clamour 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  length  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  mighty  mass, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  pass. 

But  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur: 

And  lo  !  the  ranks  divide ; 
And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  four-fold  shield, 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  «  The  she-wolf's  litter 

Stand  savagely  at  bay  : 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?" 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rush'd  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turn'd  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turn'd,  came  yet  too  nigh; 
It  miss'd  his  helm,  but  gash'd  his  thigh  : 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

He  reel'd,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space ; 
Then,  like  a  wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet, 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 

And  the  great  lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak. 
Far,  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread ; 
And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  press'd  his  heel, 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugg'd  amain 

Ere  he  wrench'd  out  the  steel. 
"And  see,"  he  cried,  "the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  ! 
What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer?" 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran, 
Mingled  of  wrath,  and  shame,  and  dread, 

Along  that  glittering  van. 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 


349 


There  lack'd  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three : 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,  like  boys  who  unaware, 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare, 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 

Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 

Was  none  who  could  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack ; 
But  those  behind  cried  "  Forward  !" 

And  those  before  cried  "  Back  !" 
And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array  ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel, 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel ; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd  ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud. 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  1 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

Thrice  look'd  he  on  the  city  ; 

Thrice  look'd  he  at  the  dead ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turn'd  back  in  dread : 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 

Scowl'd  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied, 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius !" 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
"  Back,  Lartius !  back,  Herminius ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !" 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius  ; 

Herminius  darted  back: 
And,  as  they  pass'd,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turn'd  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  cross'd  once  more. 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosen'd  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  : 


And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 
Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome 

As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 
Was  splash'd  the  yellow  foam. 

And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  toss'd  his  tawny  mane ; 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free  ; 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 

Rush'd  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind  ; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"  Down  with  him  !"  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

«  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turn'd  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see  ; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

«  O  Tiber !  father  Tiber  ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  !" 
So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank: 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain : 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armour, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows : 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place. 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
2Q 


350 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 


And  our  good  father  Tiber 
Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"  Curse  on  him !"  quoth  false  Sexlus; 

"  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ] 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sack'd  the  town  !" 
"Heaven  help  him  !"  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom  ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  river-gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see ; 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee : 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet  blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home ; 
And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within ; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit, 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close  ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows  ; 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armour, 
And  trims  his  helmet's  plume; 

When  the  good  wife's  shuttle  merrily 
Goes  flashing  through  the  loom ; 


With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  IVRY. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

From  whom  all  glories  are ! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege, 

King  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound 

Of  music  and  the  dance, 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines, 

Oh  pleasant  land  of  France ! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle, 

Proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes 

Of  all  thy  mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills, 

Be  joyous  in  our  joy, 
For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they 

Who  wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field 

Hath  turn'd  the  chance  of  war, 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Ivry, 

And  King  Henry  of  Navarre ! 

Oh  !  how  our  hearts  were  beating, 

When,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  league 

Drawn  out  in  long  array  ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens, 

And  all  its  rebel  peers, 
And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry, 

And  Egmont's  Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine, 

The  curses  of  our  land  ! 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst, 

A  truncheon  in  his  hand ; 
And,  as  we  look'd  on  them,  we  thought 

Of  Seine's  empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair 

All  dabbled  with  his  blood  ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God, 

Who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name, 

And  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us, 

In  all  his  armour  drest, 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume 

Upon  his  gallant  crest. 
He  look'd  upon  his  people, 

And  a  tear  was  in  his  eye ; 
He  look'd  upon  the  traitors, 

And  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us, 

As  rollM  from  wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout, 

"God  save  our  lord,  the  king." 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall, 

As  fall  full  well  he  may — 
For  never  snw  T  promise  yet 

Of  such  a  bloody  fray — 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 


351 


Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine, 

Amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day, 

The  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving ! 

Hark  to  the  mingled  din 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum, 

And  roaring  culverin  ! 
The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast 

Across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry 

Of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 
Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love, 

Fair  gentlemen  of  France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now, 

Upon  them  with  the  lance  ! 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep, 

A  thousand  spears  in  rest, 
A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close 

Behind  the  snow-white  crest ; 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rush'd, 

While,  like  a  guiding  star, 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed 

The  helmet  of  Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours ! 

Mayenne  hath  turn'd  his  rein. 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter, — 

The  Flemish  Count  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds 

Before  a  Biscay  gale  ; 
The  field  is  heap'd  with  bleeding  steeds, 

And  flags,  and  cloven  mail ; 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance, 

And  all  along  our  van, 
"  Remember  St.  Bartholomew," 

Was  pass'd  from  man  to  man  ; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry, 

"  No  Frenchman  is  my  foe ; 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner; 

But  let  your  brethren  go." 
Oh  !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight, 

In  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry, 

The  soldier  of  Navarre  ! 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienne  ! 

Ho  !  matrons  of  Lucerne  ! 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those 

Who  never  shall  return. 
Ho  !   Philip,  send,  for  charity, 

Thy  Mexican  pistoles, 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass 

For  thy  poor  spearmen's  souls  ! 
Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League 

Look  that  your  arms  be  bright ! 
Ho  !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve, 

Keep  watch  and  ward  to-night ! 
For  our  God  hath  crush'd  thy  tyrant, 

Our  God  hath  raised  the  slave, 
And  mock'd  the  counsel  of  the  wise 

And  the  valour  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  his  holy  name 

From  whom  all  glories  are ; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord, 

King  Henry  of  Navarre. 


THE  CAVALIER'S  MARCH  TO  LON- 
DON. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  brave  cavaliers  ! 

To  horse  for  church  and  crown  ! 
Strike,  strike  your  tents !  snatch  up  your  spears  ! 

And  ho  for  London  town  ! 
The  imperial  harlot,  doom'd  a  prey 

To  our  avenging  fires, 
Sends  up  the  voice  of  her  dismay 

From  all  her  hundred  spires. 

The  Strand  resounds  with  maiden's  shrieks, 

The  'Change  with  merchants'  sighs, 
And  blushes  stand  on  brazen  cheeks, 

And  tears  in  iron  eyes ; 
And,  pale  with  fasting  and  with  fright, 

Each  Puritan  committee 
Hath  summon'd  forth  to  prayer  and  fight 

The  Roundheads  of  the  city. 

And  soon  shall  London's  sentries  hear 

The  thunder  of  our  drum, 
And  London's  dames,  in  wilder  fear, 

Shall  cry,  Alack  !     They  come  ! 
Fling  the  fascines ; — tear  up  the  spikes  ; 

And  forward,  one  and  all. 
Down,  down  with  all  their  ;,rain-band  pikes, 

Down  with  their  mud-built  wall. 

Quarter  ? — Foul  fall  your  whining  noise, 

Ye  recreant  spawn  of  fraud  ! 
No  quarter  !     Think  on  Strafford,  boys. 

No  quarter !     Think  on  Laud. 
What  ho  !     The  craven  slaves  retire. 

On  !     Trample  them  to  mud, 
No  quarter  !  Charge. — No  quarter  !  Fire. 

No  quarter  !  Blood !  blood  !  blood  ! — 

Where  next!     In  sooth  there  lacks  no  witch, 

Brave  lads,  to  tell  us  where, 
Sure  London's  sons  be  passing  rich, 

Her  daughters  wondrous  fair : 
And  let  that  dastard  be  the  theme 

Of  many  a  board's  derision, 
Who  quails  for  sermon,  cuff,  or  scream 

Of  any  sweet  precisian. 

Their  lean  divines,  of  solemn  brow, 

Sworn  foes  to  throne  and  steeple, 
From  an  unwonted  pulpit  now 

Shall  edify  the  people  : 
Till  the  tired  hangman,  in  despair, 

Shall  curse  his  blunted  shears, 
And  vainly  pinch,  and  scrape,  and  tear, 

Around  their  leathern  ears. 

We'll  hang,  above  his  own  Guildhall, 

The  city's  grave  Recorder, 
And  on  the  don  of  thieves  we'll  fall, 

Though  Pym  should  speak  to  order. 
In  vain  the  lank-hatr'd  gang  shall  try 

To  cheat  our  martial  law; 
In  vain  shall  L-nth:ill  trembling  cry 

That  str.m  rprs  mast  withdraw. 


352 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 


Of  bench  and  woolsack,  tub  and  chair, 

We'll  build  a  glorious  pyre, 
And  tons  of  rebel  parchment  there 

Shall  crackle  in  the  fire. 
With  them  shall  perish,  cheek  by  jowl, 

Petition,  psalm,  and  libel, 
The  colonel's  canting  muster-roll, 

The  chaplain's  dog-ear'd  Bible. 

We'll  tread  a  measure  round  the  blaze 

Where  England's  pest  expires, 
And  lead  along  the  dance's  maze 

The  beauties  of  the  friars : 
Then  smiles  in  every  face  shall  shine, 

And  joy  in  every  soul. 
Bring  forth,  bring  forth  the  oldest  wine, 

And  crown  the  largest  bowl. 

And  as  with  nod  and  laugh  ye  sip 

The  goblet's  rich  carnation, 
Whose  bursting  bubbles  seem  to  tip 

The  wink  of  invitation  ; 
Drink  to  those  names, — those  glorious  names, — 

Those  names  no  time  shall  sever, — 
Drink,  in  a  draught  as  deep  as  Thames, 

Our  church  and  king  for  ever ! 


THE  SPANISH  ARMADA. 

ATTEXD  all  ye  who  list  to  hear 

Our  noble  England's  praise  ! 
I  tell  of  the  thrice  famous  deeds 

She  wrought  in  ancient  days, 
When  that  great  fleet  invincible 

Against  her  bore  in  vain, 
The  richest  spoils  of  Mexico, 

The  stoutest  hearts  of  Spain. 

It  was  about  the  lovely  close 

Of  a  warm  summer  day, 
There  came  a  gallant  merchant-ship 

Full  sail  to  Plymouth  Bay  ; 
Her  crew  had  seen  Castile's  black  fleet 

Beyond  Aurigny's  Isle, 
At  earliest  twilight,  on  the  waves, 

Lie  heaving  many  a  mile ; 
At  sunrise  she  escaped  their  van, 

By  God's  especial  grace ; 
And  the  tall  Pinta,  till  the  noon, 

Had  held  her  close  in  chase. 
Forthwith  a  guard  at  every  gun 

Was  placed  along  the  wall ; 
The  beacon  blazed  upon  the  roof 

Of  Edgecombe's  lofty  hall, 
And  many  a  fishing-bark  put  out, 

To  pry  along  the  coast, 
And  with  loose  rein  and  bloody  spur, 

Rode  inland  many  a  post. 

With  his  white  hair  unbonneted, 
The  stout  old  Sheriff  comes ; 

Behind  him  march  the  halberdiers, 
Before  him  sound  the  drums ; 


His  yeomen  round  the  market-cross 

Make  clear  an  ample  space, 
For  there  behoves  him  to  set  up 

The  standard  of  her  grace. 
And  haughtily  the  trumpets  peal, 

And  gayly  dance  the  bells, 
As  slow  upon  the  labouring  wind 

The  royal  blazon  swells. 
Look  how  the  lion  of  the  seas 

Lifts  up  his  ancient  crown, 
And  underneath  his  deadly  paw 

Treads  the  gay  lilies  down  ! 
So  stalk'd  he  when  he  turn'd  to  flight, 

On  that  famed  Picard  field, 
Bohemia's  plume,  Genoa's  bow, 

And  Csesar's  eagle  shield  ; 
So  glared  he  when  at  Agincourt 

In  wrath  he  turn'd  to  bay, 
And  crush'd  and  torn  beneath  his  claws 

The  princely  hunters  lay. 
Ho  !  strike  the  flag-staff  deep,  Sir  Knight, — 

Ho  !  scatter  flowers,  fair  maids — 
Ho  !  gunners,  fire  a  loud  salute — 

Ho  !  gallants,  draw  your  blades  ; 
Thou  sun,  shine  on  her  joyously  ; 

Ye  breezes,  waft  her  wide  ; 
Our  glorious  Semper  eadem — 

The  banner  of  our  pride. 

The  freshening  breeze  of  eve  unfurl'd 

That  banner's  massy  fold — 
The  parting  gleam  of  sunshine  kiss'd 

That  haughty  scroll  of  gold  ; 
Night  sank  upon  the  dusky  beach, 

And  on  the  purple  sea — 
Such  night  in  England  ne'er  had  been, 

Nor  e'er  again  shall  be. 
From  Eddystone  to  Berwick  bounds, 

From  Lynn  to  Milford  Bay, 
That  time  of  slumber  was  as  bright 

And  busy  as  the  day  ; 
For  swift  to  east  and  swift  to  west, 

The  warning  radiance  spread — 
High  on  St.  Michael's  Mount  it  shone — 

It  shone  on  Beachy  Head. 
Far  on  the  deep  the  Spaniard  saw, 

Along  each  southern  shire, 
Cape  beyond  cape,  in  endless  range, 

Those  twinkling  points  of  fire ; 
The  fisher  left  his  skiff  to  rock 

On  Tamar's  glittering  waves, 
The  rugged  miners  pour'd  to  war 

From  Mendip's  sunless  caves. 
O'er  Longleat's  towers,  o'er  Cranbourne's  oaks, 

The  fiery  herald  flew  ; 
He  roused  the  shepherds  of  Stonehenge, 

The  rangers  of  Beaulieu. 

Right  sharp  and  quick  the  bells  all  night 

Rang  out  from  Bristol  town, 
And  ere  the  day  three  hundred  horse 

Had  met  on  Clifton  down  ; 
The  sentinel  on  Whitehall  Gate 

Look'd  forth  into  the  night, 
And  saw  o'erhanging  Richmond  Hill 

The  streak  of  blood-red  light. 


THOMAS    BABINGTON    MACAULAY. 


353 


Then  bugle's  note  and  cannon's  roar 

The  death-like  silence  broke, 
And  with  one  start,  and  with  one  cry, 

The  royal  city  woke. 
At  once  on  all  her  stately  gates 

Arose  the  answering  fires ; 
At  once  the  wild  alarum  clash'd 

From  all  her  reeling  spires  ; 
From  all  the  batteries  of  the  Tower, 

Peal'd  loud  the  voice  of  fear  ; 
And  all  the  thousand  masts  of  Thames 

Sent  back  a  louder  cheer; 
And  from  the  farthest  wards  was  heard 

The  ru^sh  of  hurrying  feet,' 
And  the  broad  streams  of  flags  and  pikes 

Dash'd  down  each  roaring  street ; 
And  broader  still  became  the  blaze, 

And  louder  still  the  din, 
As  fast  from  every  village  round 

The  horse  came  spurring  in  : 
And  eastward  straight,  from  wild  Blackheath, 

The  warlike  errand  went, 
And  roused  in  many  an  ancient  hall, 

The  gallant  'squires  of  Kent. 
Southward  from  Surrey's  pleasant  hills, 

Flew  those  bright  couriers  forth ; 
High  on  bleak  Hempstead's  swarthy  moor, 

They  started  for  the  north  ; 
And  on,  and  on,  without  a  pause, 

Untired  they  bounded  still ; 
All  night  from  tower  to  tower  they  sprang — 

They  sprang  from  hill  to  hill, 
Till  the  proud  Peak  unfurl'd  the  flag 

O'er  Darwin's  rocky  dales — 
Till  like  volcanoes  flared  to  heaven, 

The  stormy  hills  of  Wales- 
Till  twelve  fair  counties  saw  the  blaze 

On  Malvern's  lonely  height, 
Till  stream'd  in  crimson  on  the  wind 

The  Wrekin's  crest  of  light — 
Till  broad  and  fierce  the  star  came  forth 

On  Ely's  stately  fane, 
And  tower  and  hamlet  rose  in  arms 

O'er  all  the  boundless  plain — 
Till  Belvoir's  lordly  terraces 

The  sign  to  Lincoln  sent, 
And  Lincoln  sped  the  message  on, 

O'er  the  wide  vale  of  Trent — 
Till  Skiddaw  saw  the  fire  that  burn'd 

On  Gaunt's  embattled  pile, 
And  the  red  glare  on  Skiddaw  roused 

The  burghers  of  Carlisle  ! 


45 


A  SONG  OF   THE  HUGUENOTS. 

OH  !  weep  for  Moncontour. 

Oh  !  weep  for  the  hour 
When  the  children  of  darkness 

And  evil  had  power  ; 
When  the  horsemen  of  Valois 

Triumphantly  trod 
On  the  bosoms  that  bled 

For  their  rights  and  their  God. 

Oh  !  weep  for  Moncontour. 

Oh  weep  for  the  slain 
Who  for  faith  and  for  freedom 

Lay  slaughter'd  in  vain. 
Oh  !  weep  for  the  living, 

Who  linger  to  bear 
The  renegade's  shame, 

Or  the  exile's  despair. 

One  look,  one  last  look, 

To  the  cots  and  the  towers, 
To  the  rows  of  our  vines, 

And  the  beds  of  our  flowers, 
To  the  church  where  the  bones 

Of  our  fathers  decay'd, 
Where  we  fondly  had  deem'd 

That  our  own  should  be  laid. 
Alas  !  we  must  leave  thee, 

Dear  desolate  home, 
To  the  spearmen  of  Uri, 

The  shavelings  of  Rome, 
To  the  serpent  of  Florence, 

The  vutoure  of  Spain, 
To  the  pride  of  Anjou, 

And  the  guile  of  Lorraine. 

Farewell  to  thy  fountain, 

Farewell  to  thy  shades, 
To  the  song  of  thy  youths, 

And  the  dance  of  thy  maids. 
To  the  breath  of  thy  garden, 

The  hum  of  thy  bees, 
And  the  long  waving  line 

Of  the  blue  Pyrenees. 

Farewell,  and  for  ever. 

The  priest  and  the  slave 
May  rule  in  the  halls 

Of  the  free  and  the  brave  ; — 
Our  hearths  we  abandon  ; — 

Our  lands  we  resign ; 
But,  Father,  we  kneel 

To  no  altar  but  thine. 


D.    M.    MOIR. 


MR.  Mom  was  born  about  the  beginning  of 
the  present  century.  He  is  a  physician,  and 
resides  at  Musselburgh,  near  Edinburgh. 
Under  the  signature  of  DELTA,  he  has  been 
for  many  years  one  of  the  principal  poetical 
contributors  to  Blackwood's  Magazine ;  and 
he  has  published,  besides  one  or  two  volumes 
of  poems,  Outlines  of  the  Ancient  History  of 


Medicine,  The  Autobiography  of  Mansie 
Waugh,  A  Memoir  of  John  Gait,  and  other 
works  in  prose.  In  his  poems  he  alludes  to 
frequent  domestic  misfortunes.  Casa's  Dirge, 
Wee  Willie,  and  other  pieces,  breathe  a  pure 
and  simple  pathos,  and  his  writings,  gene- 
rally, are  characterized  by  much  delicacy 
and  grace. 


A  LOVER  TO  HIS  BETROTHED. 


was  on  the  hills  when  last  we  parted, 
Flowers  in  the  vale,  and  beauty  on  the  sky  ; 
Our  hearts  were  true,  although  our  hopes  were 

thwarted  ; 

Forward,  with  wistful  eye,  [sweet 

Scarce  half-resign'd  we  look'd,  yet  thought  how 
'Twould  be  ajaia  in  after  months  to  meet. 
And  months  have  pass'd  :  now  the  bright  moon  is 

shining 

O'er  the  gray  mountains  and  the  stilly  sea, 
As,  by  the  streamlet's  willowy  bend  reclining, 

I  pause  remembering  thee, 
Who  to  the  moonlight  lent  a  softer  charm 
As  through  these  wilds  we  wandered  arm  in  arm. 

Yes!  as  we  roam'd  the  sylvan  earth  seem'd  glowing 

With  many  a  beauty  unremark'd  before: 
The  soul  was  like  a  deep  urn  overflowing 

With  thoughts,  a  treasured  store  ; 
The  very  flowers  seem'd  born  but  to  exhale, 
As  breath'd  the  West,  their  fragrance  to  the  gale. 
Methinks  I  see  tbee  yet  —  thy  form  of  lightness, 

An  angel  phantom  gliding  through  the  trees, 
Thine  alabaster  brow,  thy  cheek  of  brightness, 

Thy  tresses  in  the  breeze 

Floating  their  auburn,  and  thine  eyes  that  made, 
So  rich  their  blue,  heaven's  azure  like  a  shade. 

Methinks  even  yet  I  feel  thy  timid  fingers, 

With  their  bland  pressure  thrilling  bliss  to  mine; 
Methinks  yet  on  my  cheek  thy  breathing  lingers 

As,  fondly  leant  to  thine, 
I  told  how  life  all  pleasureless  would  be, 
Green  palm-tree  of  earth's  desert!  wanting  thee. 
Not  yet,  not  yet  had  disappointment  shrouded 

Youth's  summer  calm  with  storms  of  wintry  strife; 
The  star  of  Hope  shone  o'er  our  path  unclouded, 

And  Fancy  colour'd  life 

With  those  elysian  rainbow-hues,  which  Truth 
Melts  with  his  rod,  when  disenchanting  youth. 

Where  art  thou  now  ?     I  look  around,  but  see  not 
The  features  and  the  form  that  haunt  my  dreams  ! 

Where  art  thou  now  1     I  listen,  but  for  me,  not 
The  deep  rich  music  streams 
35  1 


Of  that  entrancing  voice,  which  could  bestow 

A  zest  to  pleasure,  and  a  balm  to  wo : — 

I  miss  thy  smile,  when  morn's  first  light  is  bursting 

Through  the  green  branches  of  the  casement  tree ; 
To  list  thy  voice  my  lonely  eat  is  thirsting, 

Beside  the  moonlit  sea  : 
Vain  are  my  longings,  my  repinings  vain ; 
Sleep  only  gives  thee  to  my  arms  again. 

Yet  should  it  cheer  me,  that  nor  wo  hath  shatter'd 

The  ties  that  link  our  hearts,  nor  Hate,  nor  Wrath, 
And  soon  the  day  may  dawn,  when  shall  be  scatter'd 

All  shadows  from  our  path  ; 
And  visions  be  fulfill'd,  by  Hope  adored, 
In  thee,  the  long-lost,  to  mine  arms  restored. 
Ah  !  could  I  see  thee ! — see  thee,  were  it  only 

But  for  a  moment  looking  bliss  to  me ! 
Ah  !  could  I  hear  thee  ! — desolate  and  lonely 

Is  life  deprived  of  thee  : 
I  start  from  out  my  revery,  to  know 
That  hills  between  us  rise,  and  rivers  flow ! 

Let  Fortune  change — be  fickle  Fate  preparing 

To  shower  her  arrows,  or  to  shed  her  balm, 
All  that  I  ask  for,  pray  for,  is  the  sharing 

With  thee  life's  storm  or  calm ; 
For,  ah  !  with  others'  wealth  and  mirth  would  be 
Less  sweet  by  far  than  sorrow  shared  with  thee ! 
Yes !  vainly,  foolishly,  the  vulgar  reckon 

That  happiness  resides  in  outward  shows : 
Contentment  from  the  lowliest  cot  may  beckon 

True  Love  to  sweet  repose : 
For  genuine  bliss  can  ne'er  be  far  apart, 
When  soul  meets  soul,  and  heart  responds  to  heart. 

Farewell !  let  tyrannous  Time  roll  on,  estranging 

The  eyes  and  heart  from  each  familiar  spot : 
Be  fickle  friendships  with  the  seasons  changing, 

So  that  thou  changest  not ! 
I  would  not  that  the  love  which  owes  its  birth 
To  heaven,  should  perish,  like  the  things  of  earth ! 
Adieu  !  as  falls  the  flooding  moonlight  round  me, 

Fall  Heaven's  best  joys  on  thy  beloved  head  ! 
May  cares  that  harass,  and  may  griefs  that  wound  me, 

Flee  from  thy  path  and  bed ! 
Be  every  thought  that  stirs  and  hour  that  flies, 
Sweet  as  thy  smile,  and  radiant  as  thine  eyes ! 


D.   M>   MOIR. 


355 


WEE   WILLIE, 

FARE-THEE-WELL,  our  last  and  fairest, 

Dear  wee  Willie,  fare-thee-well ! 
He,  who  lent  thee,  hath  recall'd  thee 

Back  with  him  and  his  to  dwell. 
Fifteen  moons  their  silver  lustre 

Only  o'er  thy  brow  had  shed, 
When  thy  spirit  join'd  the  seraphs, 

And  thy  dust  the  dead. 

Like  a  sunbeam,  through  our  dwelling 

Shone  thy  presence  bright  and  calm ! 
Thou  didst  add  a  zest  of  pleasure  ; 

To  our  sorrows  thou  wert  balm ; — 
Brighter  beam'd  thine  eyes  than  summer ; 

And  thy  first  attempt  at  speech 
Thrill' d  our  heart-strings  with  a  rapture 

Music  ne'er  could  reach. 

As  we  gazed  upon  thee  sleeping, 

With  thy  fine  fair  locks  outspread, 
Thou  didst  seem  a  little  angel, 

Who  from  heaven  to  earth  had  stray'd  ; 
And,  entranced,  we  watch'd  the  vision, 

Half  in  hope  and  half  affright, 
Lest  what  we  deem'd  ours,  and  earthly, 

Should  dissolve  in  light. 

Snows  o'ermantled  hill  and  valley, 

Sullen  clouds  begrim'd  the  sky, 
When  the  first,  drear  doubt  oppress'd  us, 

That  our  child  was  doom'd  to  die  ! 
Through  each  long  night-watch,  the  taper 

Show'd  the  hectic  of  thy  cheek; 
And  each  anxious  dawn  beheld  thee 

More  worn  out,  and  weak. 

'Twas  even  then  Destruction's  angel 

Shook  his  pinions  o'er  our  path, 
Seized  the  rosiest  of  our  household, 

And  struck  Charlie  down  in  death — 
Fearful,  awful,  Desolation 

On  our  lintel  set  his  sign  ; 
And  we  turn'd  from  his  sad  death-bed 

Willie,  round  to  thine  ! 

As  the  beams  of  Spring's  first  morning 

Through  the  silent  chamber  play'd, 
Lifeless,  in  mine  arms  I  raised  thee, 

And  in  thy  small  coffin  laid  ; 
Ere  the  day-star  with  the  darkness 

Nine  times  had  triumphant  striven, 
In  one  grave  had  met  your  ashes, 

And  your  souls  in  Heaven  ! 

Five  were  ye,  the  beauteous  blossoms 

Of  our  hopes,  and  hearts,  and  hearth  ; 
Two  asleep  lie  buried  under — 

Three  for  us  yet  gladden  earth  : 
Thee,  our  hyacinth,  gay  Charlie, 

Willie,  thee  our  snow-drop  pure, 
Back  to  us  shall  second  spring-time 

Never  more  allure ! 

Yet  while  thinking,  oh  !  our  lost  ones  ! 
Of  how  dear  ye  were  to  us, 


Why  should  dreams  of  doubt  and  darkness 
Haunt  our  troubled  spirits  thus  ? 

Why,  across  the  cold  dim  churchyard 
Flit  our  visions  of  despair  1 

Seated  on  the  tomb,  Faith's  angel 
Says,  "Ye  are  not  there  !" 

Where  then  are  ye  1     With  the  Saviour 

Blest,  for  ever  blest,  are  ye, 
Mid  the  sinless,  little  children, 

Who  have  heard  his  <•  Come  to  me  !" 
'Yond  the  shades  of  death's  dark  valley, 

Now  ye  lean  upon  his  breast, 
Where  the  wicked  dare  not  enter, 

And  the  weary  rest ! 

We  are  wicked — we  are  weary — 

For  us  pray,  and  for  us  plead ; 
God,  who  ever  hears  the  sinless, 

May  through  you  the  sinful  heed ; 
Pray  that,  through  Christ's  mediation, 

All  our  faults  may  be  forgiven ; 
Plead  that  ye  be  sent  to  greet  us 

At  the  gates  of  Heaven  ! 


MIDNIGHT. 

'Tis  night,  and  in  darkness  ; — the  visions  of  youth 

Flit  solemn  and  slow  in  the  eye  of  the  mind ; 
The  hopes  that  excited  have  perish'd  ; — and  truth 

Laments  o'er  the  wreck  they  are  leaving  behind. 
'Tis  midnight ; — and  wide  o'er  the  regions  of  riot 

Are  spread,  deep  in  silence,  the  wings  of  repose ; 
And  man,  sooth'd  from  revel  and  lull'd  into  quiet, 

Forgets  in  his  slumber  the  weight  of  his  woes. 
How  gloomy  and  dim  is  the  scowl  of  the  heaven, 

Whose  azure  the  clouds  with  their  darkness  invest: 
Not  a  star  o'er  the  shadowy  concave  is  given, 

To  omen  a  something  like  hope  in  the  breast. 
Hark !  how  the  lone  night-wind  up-tosses  the  forest ; 

Adowncast  regret  through  themind  slowly  steals; 
But  ah  !  'tis  the  tempests  of  Fortune,  that  sorest 

The  desolate  heart  in  its  loneliness  feels. 
Where,  where  are  the  spirits  in  whom  was  my  trust; 

Whose  bosoms  with  mutual  affection  would  burn? 
Alas !  they  are  gone  to  their  homes  in  the  dust; 

The  grass  rustles  drearily  over  their  urn  : 
Whilst  I,  in  a  populous  solitude  languish, 

Mid  foes  who  beset  me,  and  friends  who  are  cold  : 
Yes, — the  pilgrim  of  earth  oft  has  felt  in  his  an- 
guish 

That  the  heart  may  be  widow'd  before  it  be  old! 
Affection  can  soothe  but  its  vot'ries  an  hour, — 

Doom'd  soon  in  the  flames  that  it  raised  to  de- 
part; 
But  oh  !  Disappointment  has  poison  and  power 

To  ruffle  and  fret  the  most  patient  of  heart ! 
How  oft  'neath  the  dark-pointed  arrows  of  malice 

Hath  merit  been  destined  to  bear  and  to  bleed  ; 
And  they  who  of  pleasure  have  emptied  the  chalice, 

Can  tell  that  the  dregs  are  full  bitter  indeed ! 
Let  the  storms  of  adversity  lower, — 'tis  in  vain, 

Though  friends  should  forsake  me  andfoes  should 
condemn ; 


356 


D.    M.    MOIR. 


These  may  kindle  the  breasts  of  the  weak  to  com- 
plain, 

They  only  can  teach  resignation  to  mine  : 
For  far  o'er  the  regions  of  doubt  and  of  dreaming, 

The  spirit  beholds  a  less  perishing  span  ; 
And  bright  through  the  tempest  the  rainbow  is 

streaming, — 
The  sign  of  forgiveness  from  MAKER  to  Man ! 


WEEP   NOT   FOR   HER. 

WKEP  not  for  her !     Her  span  was  like  the  sky, 
Whose  thousand  stars  shine  beautiful  and  bright, 

Like  flowers  that  know  not  what  it  is  to  die, 
Like  long  link'd  shadeless  months  of  polar  light, 

Like  music  floating  o'er  a  waveless  lake, 

While  echo  answers  from  the  flowery  brake, 
Weep  not  for  her  ! 

Weep  not  for  her  !     She  died  in  early  youth, 

Ere  hope  had  lost  its  rich  romantic  hues, 
When  human  bosoms  seem'd  the  homes  of  truth, 
And  earth  still  gieaai'd  with  beauty's  radiant 

dews. 

Her  summer  prime  waned  not  to  days  that  freeze, 
Her  wine  of  life  was  not  run  to  the  lees : 
Weep  not  for  her  ! 

Weep  not  for  her  !     By  fleet  or  slow  decay 

It  never  grieved  her  bosom's  core  to  mark 

The  playmates  of  her  childhood  wane  away, 

Her  prospects  wither,  and  her  hopes  grow  dark. 
Translated  by  h?r  God  with  spirit  shriven, 
She   pass'd,  as  'twere  on  smiles,  from   earth  to 
heaven  : 

Weep  not  for  her  ! 

Weep  not  for  her !     It  was  not  hers  to  feel 
The  miseries  that  corrode  amassing  years, 

'Gainst  dreams  of  baffled  bliss  the  heart  to  steel, 
To  wander  sad  down  age's  vale  of  tears, 

As  whirl  the  withered  leaves  from  friendship's  tree, 

And  on  earth's  wintry  wold  alone  to  be  : 
Weep  not  for  her  ! 

Weep  not  for  her !     She  is  an  angel  now, 
And  treads  the  sapphire  floors  of  Paradise, 

All  darkness  wiped  from  her  refulgent  brow, 
Sin,  sorrow,  suffering,  banish'd  from  her  eyes ; 

Victorious  over  death,  to  her  appears 

The  vista'd  joys  of  heaven's  eternal  years  : 
Weep  not  for  her  ! 

Weep  not  for  her !     Her  memory  is  the  shrine 
Of  pleasant  thoughts,  soft  as  the  scent  of  flowers, 

Calm  as  on  windless  eve  the  sun's  decline, 
Sweet  as  the  song  of  birds  among  the  bowers, 

Rich  as  a  rainbow  with  its  hues  of  light, 

Pure  as  the  moonshine  of  an  autumn  night : 
Weep  not  for  her  ! 

Weep  not  for  her  !     There  is  no  cause  of  wo, 
But  rather  nerve  the  spirit  that  it  walk 

Unshrinking  o'er  the  thorny  path  below, 

And  from  earth's  low  defilements  keep  thee  back; 

So,  when  a  few  fleet  swerving  years  have  flown, 

She'll  meet  thee  at  heaven's  gate — and  lead  thec  on: 
Weep  not  for  her  ! 


FLODDEN   FIELD. 

'TWAS  on  a  sultry  summer  noon, 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  breeze  was  still, 

And  Nature  with  the  robt-s  of  June 

Had  clothed  the  slopes  of  Flodden  Hill, — 

As  rode  we  slowly  o'er  the  plain, 

Mid  wayside  flowers  and  sprouting  grain ; 

The  leaves  on  every  bough  seem'd  sleeping, 
And  wild  bees  murmur'd  in  their  mirth, 
So  pleasantly,  it  seem'd  as  earth 

A  jubilee  was  keeping  ! 

And  canst  thou  be,  unto  my  soul 

I  said,  that  dread  Northumbrian  field, 

Where  war's  terrific  thunder  roll 

Above  two  banded  kingdoms  peal'd  ? 

From  out  the  forest  of  his  spears 

Ardent  imagination  hears 

The  crash  of  Surrey's  onward  charging; 
While  curtel-axe  and  broad-sword  gleam 
Opposed,  a  bright,  wide,  coming  stream, 

Like  Solway's  tide  enlarging. 

Hark  to  the  turmoil  and  tho  shout, 
The  war-cry,  and  the  cannon's  boom ! 

Behold  the  struggle  and  the  rout, 

The  broken  lance  and  draggled  plume! 

Borne  to  the  earth,  with  deadly  force, 

Comes  down  the  horseman  and  his  horse; 

Round  boils  the  battle  like  an  ocean, 
W'hile  stripling  blithe  and  veteran  stern 
Pour  forth  their  life-blood  on  the  fern, 

Amid  its  fierce  commotion  ! 

Mown  down  like  swathes  of  summer  flowers, 

Yes!  on  the  cold  earth  there  they  lie, 
The  lords  of  Scotland's  banner'd  towers, 

The  chosen  of  her  chivalry  ! 
Commingled  with  the  vulgar  dead, 
Perhaps  lies  many  a  mitred  head ; 
And  thou,  the  vanguard  onwards  leading, 

Who  left  the  sceptre  for  the  sword, 

For  battle-field  the  festal  board, 
Liest  low  amid  the  bleeding  ! 

Yes !  here  thy  life-star  knew  decline, 

Though  hope,  that  strove  to  be  deceived, 

Shaped  thy  lone  course  to  Palestine, 
And  what  it  wished  full  oft  believed: — 

An  unhewn  pillar  on  the  plain 

Marks  out  the  spot  where  thou  wast  slain ; 

There  pondering  as  I  stood,  and  gazing 
On  its  gray  top,  the  linnet  sang, 
And,  o'er  the  slopes  where  conflict  rang, 

The  quiet  sheep  were  grazing. 

And  were  the  nameless  dead  unsung, 
The  patriot  and  the  peasant  train, 

Who  like  a  phalanx  round  thee  clung, 
To  find  but  death  on  Flodden  Plain  ? 

No !  many  a  mother's  melting  lay 

Mourn'd  o'er  the  bright  flowers  wcde  away ; 

And  many  a  maid,  with  tears  of  sorrow, 
Whose  locks  no  more  were  seen  to  wave, 
Wept  for  the  beauteous  and  the  brave, 

Who  came  not  on  the  morrow  ! 


EDWARD    MOXON. 

THIS  modern  classic  bookseller  is  a  worthy 

of  "  Elia"  are  frankincense  laid  on  the  tomb 

St.  Peter,  holding  the  keys  to  the  Heaven 

of  a  noble  spirit.  Mr.  MOXON,  too,  has  suffered 

of  Poetry.     By  his  enterprise  and  liherality 

a  prosecution  for  the  publication  of  SHELLEY, 

he   has  brought   BEAUMONT  and   FLETCHER, 

and  been  vindicated  in  England  by  the  elo- 

BEN JONSON,  MASSINGER  and  WYCHERLEY  to 

quence  of  TALFOURD  ;  though  he  has  needed  no 

I    the  table  and  shelf  of  the  poor  scholar,  a  be- 

vindication, for  his  motives  are  here  above  the 

nevolent  work  for  which  the  lovers  of  wit, 

reach  of  his  assailant.     If  pure  sentiment  and 

sentiment,  and  verse,  the  friends  of  all  true 

the  cultivation  of  the  heart's  best  affections 

humanities,  "rise  up  and  call  him  blessed." 

needed   any  introduction  to   the  soul  of  the 

Mr.   MOXON    is    the    publisher    of    ROGERS, 

reader,  they  would  have  it  here  in  Mr.  MOX- 

WORDSWORTH,   CAMPBELL,    TALFOURD,  TEN- 

ON, the  friend   of  the  Muses  and  their  sons. 

NYSON,  HUNT,  and  BROWNING.     He  was  the 

But  Mr.  MOXON   on   the  score   of   his   own 

friend  of  LAMB  when  living,  —  "  closer  than  a 

merits  may  stand  "  unbonnetted"  among  his 

brother,"  —  and  death  has  not  ended  the  sweet 

brethren.     We  quote  from  the  edition  of  his 

labours  of  friendship.    The  numerous  editions 

poems  published  in  1843. 

TO  THE  MUSE. 

Thou  makest  the  lone  Philomel  to  sing, 

Greatest  a.  perpetual  spring  ; 

FAIREST  of  virgins,  daughter  of  a  God, 
That  dwellest  where  man  never  trod, 

Bid'st  Memory  wake  'neath  yonder  walls, 
O'er  which  the  tint  of  eve  in  solemn  grandeur  falls. 

Yet  unto  him  such  joy  dost  give, 

The  heavens  thou  makest  cloudless  and  serene, 

That  through  thy  aid  he  still  in  paradise  may  live  ! 

And  of  the  moon  a  huntress  queen  ; 

Immortal  Muse,  thy  glorious  praise  to  sing, 
Could  I  a  thousand  voices  bring, 

To  every  star  thou  givest  a  spirit,  — 
In  yonder  Shakspeare  dwells,  that  Milton  doth 

They  were  too  few.     Who  like  to  thee 

inherit. 

Can  captivate  the  heart  whose  soul  is  melody  1 

The  goodly  of  old  time  thou  bring'st  to  view, 

Early  thou  lead'st  me  to  some  gentle  hill, 
And  wakest  for  me  the  holy  thrill 
Of  birds  that  greet  the  welcome  morn, 

And  with  ancestral  pomp  canst  strew 
The  unromantic  smooth-paced  ways 
Of  these  our  philosophic  but  degenerate  days. 

Rejoicing  on  wild  wing,  through  fields  of  ether  borne. 

The  flower  of  chivalry  before  me  stand, 

Thou  paint'st  the  landscape  which  I  then  survey, 
Perfume.st  with  odours  sweet  my  way, 
Till  I  forget  this  world  of  wo, 

Clad  in  bright  steel,  a  warlike  band  ; 
Among  them  some  who  served  the  Muse, 
And  at  their  head  the  man  whom  she  could  naught 

And  journey  through  a  land  where  peerless  plea- 

refuse.* 

sures  flow. 

Old  bards  are  there  !  mine  eyes  in  reverence  fall 

At  noon  thou  bid'st  descend  a  golden  shower; 
To  dream  of  thee  I  seek  the  bower, 

Before  their  presence,  'neath  whose  thrall 
My  young  life  one  sweet  dream  hath  been, 

And,  like  a  prince  of  Inde,  the  shade 

Dwelling  on  earth  in  joys  ideal  and  unseen. 

Enjoy,  by  thy  blest  presence  more  voluptuous  made. 

Thou  makest  the  precious  tear  to  gush  from  eyes, 

At  eve,  when  twilight  like  a  nun  is  seen, 
Pacing  the  grove  with  pensive  mien, 
'Tis  then  thou  comest  with  most  delight; 

Strangers  to  nature's  sympathies  ; 
Tyrant  and  slave  alike  to  thee 
Have  knelt,  and  solace  found  in  dire  adversity. 

No  hour  can  be  compared  with  thine  'twixt  day 

Through  thee  the  lover  sees  with  frantic  pride 

and  night. 

His  mistress  fairer  than  Troy's  bride  ; 

'T  is,  as  it  fadeth,  like  the  farewell  smile, 
Which  settles  on  the  lips  awhile 

Through  the  sweet  magic  of  thy  art 
He  glories  in  his  wounds,  and  hugs  the  envenom'd 

Of  those  we  love,  ere  they  in  death 

dart. 

Resign  to  heaven  their  souls,  to  us  their  latest  breath. 

*  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

357 

358 


EDWARD    MOXON. 


Her  face  thou  makest  a  heaven,  and  her  eyes 
The  glory  of  those  cloudless  skies ; 
They  are  the  planets  'neath  whose  sway 

The  willing  lover  bends  on  his  celestial  way. 

Thou  cheer'st  the  prisoner  in  his  lonely  cell, 
The  broken  spirit  knows  thee  well ; 
A  troop  of  angels  come  with  thee, 

Wisdom,  and  Hope,  calm  Thought,  and  blest  Tran- 
quillity. 

Ambition  blighted  seeks  thee,  and  the  shade ; 
Remembrance  thee  her  voice  hath  made, 
At  whose  sweet  call,  as  to  some  tale,  [to  sail. 

We,  listening,  turn  our  bark  'mong  pleasures  past 

Thou  spread'st  the  canvass,  and  with  gentlest  winds 
Impell'st  the  vessel,  till  she  finds 
Some  genial  spot,  where  bends  the  yew, 

Or  cypress  waves  o'er  friends  who  long  have  bid 
adieu. 

Thou  sooth'st  the  weary  and  uplift'st  the  low ; 
The  voice  of  God  thou  wert  below : 
The  holy  prophets  spake  through  thee,  [tree. 

And  wept  to  see  their  harps  hang  mute  on  willow- 

Where  now  had  been  the  warlike  of  old  Troy, 
Whom  Time  nor  tyrants  can  destroy, 
If  the  bold  Muse  had  never  lent 

Her  aid  to  sing  her  chiefs  brave,  wise,  or  eloquent  ? 

Who,  when  the  patriot  falls  'neath  ruthless  power, 
Revives  for  aye  the  genial  shower ; 
Whose  moisture,  like  the  morning's  dews, 

Keeps  fresh  the  flower  of  fame — Who  but  the 
heavenly  Muse? 

Thou  art  the  eye  of  pity,  that  surveys 

Man  wandering  through  life's  mystic  ways ; 
His  various  changes  are  thy  theme, 

His  loves,  his  laughs,  his  tears :  like  him,  thou  art 
a  dream. 

Forgive,  blest  Muse,  my  want  of  skill  to  sing 
Thy  wonderous  praise.     Oh  round  me  fling 
The  mantle  of  sweet  thought ;  and  strew, 

As  erst,  with  flowers,  the  path  I  pensive  still  pursue. 


LOVE. 


is  a  flower  that  never  changeth  hue  ; 

In  vain  the  angry  winds  its  leaves  assail  ; 

Triumphant  over  time,  in  every  vale 
It  lifts  its  hopeful  head,  glistering  with  dew. 
The  maiden  rears  it  in  her  own  sweet  looks  ; 

The  youth  conjures  it  in  the  summer  shade, 
Pictures  its  image,  as  by  murmuring  brooks 

He  flies  from  scenes  that  his  chaste  dreams  invade. 
The  very  fields  its  presence  own  in  spring; 

The  hills  re-echo  with  a  song  of  gladness  ; 
The  heavens  themselves  their  store  of  tribute  bring, 

And  in  this  flower  all  things  renounce  their 

sadness. 

O  Love  !  where  is  the  heart  that  knows  not  thee  1 
Thou  only  bloomest  everlastingly  ! 


A   DREAM. 

METHOUGHT  my  love  was  dead.  Oh,  'twas  a  night 
Of  dreary  weeping,  and  of  bitter  wo ! 
Methought  I  saw  her  lovely  spirit  go 

With  lingering  looks  into  yon  star  so  bright, 

Which  then  assumed  such  a  beauteous  light, 
That  all  the  fires  in  heaven  compared  with  this 

Were  scarce  perceptible  to  my  weak  sight. 

There  seem'd  henceforth  the  haven  of  my  bliss ; 

To  that  I  turn'd  with  fervency  of  soul, 

And  pray 'd  that  morn  might  never  break  again, 
But  o'er  me  that  pure  planet  still  remain. 

Alas !  o'er  it  my  vows  had  no  control. 

The  lone  star  set :  I  woke  full  glad,  I  deem, 
To  find  my  sorrow  but  a  lover's  dream. 

LIFE. 

AH  !  what  is  life  !  a  dream  within  a  dream; 

A  pilgrimage  from  peril  rarely  free ; 

A  bark  that  sails  upon  a  changing  sea, 
Now  sunshine  and  now  storm;  a  mountain  stream, 

Heard,  but  scarce  seen  ere  to  the  dark  deep  gone ; 
A  wild  star  blazing  with  unsteady  beam, 

Yet  for  a  season  fair  to  look  upon. 
Life  is  an  infant  on  affection's  knee, 
A  youth  now  full  of  hope  and  transient  glee, 

In  manhood's  peerless  noon  now  bright,  anon, 
A  time-worn  ruin  silver'd  o'er  with  years. 

Life  is  a  race  where  slippery  steeps  arise, 

Where  discontent  and  sorrow  are  the  prize, 
And  when  the  goal  is  won  the  grave  appears. 

WALTON. 

WALTON  !  when,  weary  of  the  world,  I  turn 
My  pensive  soul  to  thee,  I  soothing  find 
The  meekness  of  thy  plain  contented  mind 
Act  like  some  healing  charm.     From  thee  I  learn 
To  sympathize  with  nature,  nor  repine 

At  fortune,  who,  though  lavish  of  her  store, 
Too  often  leaves  her  favourites  richly  poor, 
Wanting  both  health  and  energy  divine 
Life's  blessings  to  enjoy.     Methinks  even  now 
I  hear  thee  'neath  the  milk-white  scented  thorn 
Communing  with  thy  pupil,  as  the  morn 
Her  rosy  cheek  displays, — while  streams  that  flow, 
And  all  that  gambol  near  their  rippling  source, 
Enchanted  listen  to  thy  sweet  discourse. 

SCENES  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

AISTD  do  I  then  behold  again  the  scene, 

Whei'e  once  I  sported  when  a  wanton  child ; 

The  mead,  the  church,  the  streamlet  running  wild, 
WTith  here  and  there  a  fairy  spot  between, 
Smiling,  as  there  rude  storm,  had  never  been? 

Alas !  how  changed  are  we  who  once  did  rove, 
Calder,  thy  then  enchanted  banks  along; 

Retiring  now  to  the  sequester'd  grove, 
Now  cheerful  hearkening  to  the  aecustom'd  song 
That  rose  at  eventide  these  vales  among  !    [wear ; 

The  charm  and  hope  of  youth  the  green  leaves 
'Tis  only  man  that  blossoms  and  decays, 
To  know  no  second  spring.     I  thoughtful  gaze 

With  dream  of  years  long  past,  and  drop  a  tear. 


EDWARD    MOXON. 


359 


SIDNEY. 

SIDNEY,  thou  star  of  beaming  chivalry, 

That  rose  and  set  'mid  valour's  peerless  day ; 
Rich  ornament  of  knighthood's  milky-way  ; 

How  much  our  youth  of  England  owe  to  thee, 

Thou  model  of  high  learning  and  meek  grace, 
That  realized  an  image  which  did  find 
No  place  before,  save  in  the  inventive  mind 

Of  hoping  man.     In  thee  we  proudly  trace 

All  that  revered  Antiquity  can  show 
Of  acts  heroic  that  adorn  her  page, 
Blending  with  virtues  of  a  purer  age. 

Upon  thy  tomb  engrafted  spirits  grow, 

Where  sit  the  warbling  sisters  who  attend 
The  shade  made  sacred  to  the  Muses'  friend. 

SOLACE  DERIVED  FROM  BOOKS. 

HEXCE  care,  and  let  me  steep  my  drooping  spirit 
In  streams  of  poesy,  or  let  me  steer 
Imagination's  bark  'mong  bright  scenes,  where 

Mortals  immortal  fairy-land  inherit. 

Ah  me !  that  there  should  be  so  few  to  merit 
The  realized  hope  of  him,  who  deems 
In  his  youth's  spring  that  life  is  what  it  seems, 

Till  sorrows  pierce  his  soul,  and  storms  deter  it 

From  resting  there  as  erst !     Ye  visions  fair, 
Of  Genius  born,  to  you  I  turn,  and  flee 
Far  from  this  world's  ungenial  apathy ; 

Too  blest,  if  but  awhile  I  captive  share 

The  presence  of  such  beings  as  engage  [less  page. 
The  heart,  and  burn  through  Shakspeare's  ruatch- 

TO  A  BIRD. 

SWEET  captive,  thou  a  lesson  me  hast  taught 
Excelling  any  which  the  schools  convey  ; 
Example  before  precept  men  obey. 

Methinks  already  I  have  haply  caught 

A  portion  of  thy  joy.     Contentment  rare, 
For  one  in  dull  abode  like  thine,  I  trace, 
Blended  with  warblings  of  such  cheerful  grace  ; 

And  yet  without  a  listening  ear  to  share, 

Save  mine,  thy  melody.     Thus  all  day  long, 
Even  as  the  youthful  bard  that  meditates 
In  scenes  the  visionary  mind  creates, 

Thou  to  some  woodland  image  tunest  thy  song; 
A  prisoner  too  to  hope,  like  him,  sweet  bird, 

In  lonely  cell  thou  sing'st,  and  sing'st  unheard. 

A  MOTHER  SINGING. 

HARK,  'tis  a  mother  singing  to  her  child 
Those  madrigals  that  used  her  ears  to  greet, 
When  she,  an  infant  like  that  spring-flower  sweet, 

Lent  her  charm'd  ears  to  nurse,  or  mother  mild, 

That  sang  those  nursery  stories  strange  and  wild — 
Of  knights,  of  robbers,  and  of  Fairy  queens 
Dwelling  in  castles  mid  enchanted  scenes— 

The  songs  which  plain  antiquity  beguiled. 

Or  is  her  theme  of  him,  her  lord,  whose  bark 
Is  ploughing,  'neath  his  guidance,  Indian  seas  ; 
Or  far  detain'd  by  polar  skies,  that  freriv 

His  glad  return  1     She,  tuneful  as  the  lark  [smile, 
That  warbling  soars,  though  Phoebus  cc.i.se  to 

Lifts  her  soft  voice,  and  sings,  though  sad  the  while. 


POESY. 

DIVINEST  Poesy  !  without  thy  wings 

Life  were  a  burden,  and  not  worth  receiving ; 
Youth  fadeth  like  a  dream,  care  keeps  us  grieving, 

Early  we  sicken  at  all  pleasure  brings. 

Thou  only  art  the  ever  genial  maid, 

That  strew'st  with  flowers  the  winter  of  our  way  ; 

Companion  meet  in  city  or  in  shade, 

Magician  sweet  whose  wand  all  things  obey ; 

Thou  peoplest  with  divinities  the  grove, 
Picturest  old  times,  and  with  creative  skill, 
Mould'st  men  and  manners  to  thy  heavenly  will. 

Mistress  of  sympathy  and  winning  love, 

Oh  be  thou  ever  with  me,  with  me — wholly, 

To  smile  when  I  am  gay,  to  sigh  when  melancholy. 

TO  

AND  what  was  Stella  but  a  haughty  darnel 
Or  Geraldine,  whom  noble  Surrey  sought  ] 
Or  Sacharissa,  she  who  proudly  taught 

The  courtly  Waller  statelier  verse  to  frame  1 
Or  Beatrice,  whom  Dante  deified  1 

Or  she  of  whom  all  Italy  once  rung, 
Compared  with  thee,  who  art  our  age's  pride, 

And  the  sweet  theme  of  many  a  poet's  tongue  ? 
There  is  a  nobleness  that  dwells  within, 

Fairer  by  far  than  any  outward  feature ; 
A  grace,  a  wit  to  gentleness  akin, 

That  would  subdue  the  most  unloving  creature. 
These  beauties  rare  are  thine,  most  matchless  maid, 
Compared  with  which,theirswerebutbeauty's  shade. 

ROUEN. 

BRIGHT  was  the  moon  as  from  thy  gates  I  went, 
Majestic  Rouen  !  and  the  silver  Seine 
Dimpled  with  joy,  as  murmuring  to  the  main, 

A  pilgrim  like  myself,  her  course  she  bent. 

Thou  art  a  city  beautiful  to  see, 

Surpassing  in  magnificence  that  seat 
Of  kings,  the  capital,  the  gay  retreat 

Of  which  "all  Europe  rings!"     Full  oft  of  thee 

Will  be  my  future  dreams  ;  when  far  away, 
I  still  shall  mingle  with  thy  ancient  throng; 
Shall  pace  thy  marble  halls,  and  gaze  among 

The  Gothic  splendours  of  thy  once  bright  day, 
When  the  first  Francis  was  thy  guest,  and  thou 
Thyself  didst  wear  a  crown  upon  thy  brow  ! 

PIETY. 

METHOUGHT  I  heard  a  voice  upon  me  call, 
As  listless  in  desponding  mood  I  lay, 
Whiling  the  melancholy  hour  away, 

Mid  fears  that  did  my  fondest  hopes  enthral. 

'Twas  not  the  trumpet  voice  of  fame  I  heard, 
Nor  fortune's,  nurse  of  impotence  and  care ; 
Nor  yet  the  moanings  deep  of  fell  despair. 

But  oh  !  it  was  the  voice  of  one  that  stirr'd 

In  every  leaf!     Sweet,  sweet  the  accents  came, 
And  stole  in  pure  affection  to  my  heart, 
Healing  within  wounds  bleeding  'neath  the  smart 

Of  bitterest  wo.  Up  sprang  my  gladden'd  frame 
Restored,  as  henceforth  brighter  days  to  see; — 
Thy  voice  it  was  I  heard,  meek  Piety. 


MRS.    NORTON. 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH  NORTON  is  a 
granddaughter  of  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERI- 
DAN, and  the  inheritor  of  his  genius.  While 
she  was  an  infant,  her  father,  THOMAS  SHERI- 
DAN, sought  the  renovation  of  a  shattered  con- 
stitution in  the  tropical  seas,  but  unsuccess- 
fully, for  four  years  after  leaving  England  he 
died  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  whence  his 
widow  returned  home,  and,  living  in  seclu- 
sion, devoted  herself  with  untiring  assiduity  to 
the  education  of  her  children,  the  author  of  The 
Dream,  another  daughter,  now  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
BLACKWOOD,  author  of  the  Irish  Emigrant's 
Lament,  etc.,  and  a  third,  now  Lady  SEYMOUR. 

The  eldest  two  of  these  sisters  exhibited  re- 
markable precocity.  They  rivalled  the  cele- 
brated Misses  DAVIDSON  of  this  country  in  the 
earliness  and  perfection  of  their  mental  de- 
velopment. At  twelve  CAROLINE  SHERIDAN 
wrote  verses  which  even  now  she  would  not 
be  ashamed  to  see  in  print,  and  at  seventeen 
she  finished  The  Sorrows  of  Rosalie,  which 
gave  abundant  promise  of  the  reputation  she 
has  since  acquired. 

Two  years  afterward  she  was  married  to 
the  Hon.  GEORGE  CHAPPLE  NORTON,  a  brother 
to  Lord  GRANTLEY.  Mr.  NORTON  proposed  for 
Miss  SHERIDAN  when  she  was  sixteen;  but 
her  mother  postponed  the  contract  three  years, 
that  the  daughter  might  herself  be  better  qua- 
lified to  fix  her  choice.  In  this  period  she 
became  acquainted  with  one  whose  early  death 
alone  prevented  a  union  more  consonant  to  her 
feelings;  and  when  Mr.  NORTON  renewed  his 
proposal  he  was  accepted.  The  unhappiness 
of  this  union  is  too  well  known  to  be  passed 
over  in  silence.  Ingenuous  and  earnest  as 
the  poetical  nature  invariably  is,  trustful,  ar- 
dent, and  reliant  upon  its  own  intrinsic  worthi- 
ness, it  is  too  often  regardless  of  those  con- 
ventional forms  which  become  both  a  barrier 
and  a  screen  to  the  less  pure  in  heart.  Occu- 
pying the  most  enviable  position  in  society, 
surpassing  most  of  her  sex  as  much  in  per- 
sonal beauty  as  in  genius,  it  were  a  wonder 
had  she  escaped  the  attacks  of  envy  and 
malevolence.  While  Lord  MELBOURNE  was 
prime  minister,  urged  on  by  the  political  erie- 

31 V) 


mies  of  that  nobleman,  Mr.  NORTON  instituted 
a  prosecution  on  a  charge  involving  her  fide- 
lity. All  the  low  arts  which  well-feed  attor- 
neys and  a  malignant  prosecutor  could  devise 
were  put  in  requisition.  Forgery,  perjury, 
the  searching  scrutiny  of  private  papers,  the 
exhibition  of  the  most  thoughtless  and  trivial 
incidents  and  conversations  in  her  history, 
were  resorted  to.  But  all  were  unavailing. 
She  paesed  the  ordeal  with  her  white  robes 
unsullied  by  the  slightest  stain.  An  acquittal 
by  the  jury  and  the  people,  however,  poorly 
atoned  the  injustice  of  the  accusation. 

Mrs.  NORTON  has  been  styled  the  BYRON 
of  her  sex.  Though  she  resembles  that  great 
poet  in  the  energy  and  mournfulness  so  often 
pervading  her  pages,  it  would  be  erroneous  to 
confound  her  sorrowful  craving  for  sympathy, 
womanly  endurance,  resignation,  and  religious 
trust,  with  the  refined  misanthropy  of  Childe 
Harold.  She  feels  intensely,  and  utters  her 
thoughts  with  an  impassioned  energy ;  but 
they  are  not  the  vapourings  of  a  sickly  fancy, 
nor  the  morbid  workings  of  undue  self-love; 
they  are  the  strong  and  healthful  action  of  a 
noble  nature  abounding  in  the  wealth  of  its 
affections,  outraged  and  trampled  upon,  and 
turning  from  its  idols  to  God  when  the  altar 
at  which  it  worshipped  has  been  taken  away. 

Mrs.  NORTON  now  lives  in  comparative  re- 
tirement, admired  by  the  world,  and  idolized 
by  the  few  admitted  to  her  friendship.  Be- 
sides the  Sorrows  of  Rosalie,  The  Undying 
One,  and  The  Dream,  (the  last  and  best  of 
her  productions,)  she  has  written  many  shorter 
poems  of  much  beauty,  which  have  probably 
been  more  widely  read  than  the  works  of  any 
poetess  except  Mrs.  HEMANS. 

The  poetry  of  Mrs.  NORTON  is  often  distin- 
guished for  a  masculine  energy,  and  always 
for  grace  and  harmony.  She  has  taste,  an 
affluent  fancy,  and  an  unusual  ease  of  ex- 
pression. Her  principal  fault  is  diffuseness; 
she  writes  herself  through,  giving  us  all  the 
progress  of  her  mind  and  the  byplay  of  her 
thought.  Her  recent  works  are,  however, 
more  compressed  and  carefully  finished  than 
those  of  an  earlier  date. 


MRS.    NORTON. 


361 


DEDICATION   OF  THE  DREAM, 

TO  THE  DUCHESS  OF  SUTHERLAND. 

O]VCE  more,  my  harp!  once  more,  although  I  thought 
Never  to  wake  thy  silent  strings  again, 

A  soothing  dream  thy  gentle  chords  have  wrought, 
And  my  sad  heart,  which  long  hath  dwelt  in  pain, 

Soars,  like  a  wild  bird  from  a  cypress  hough, 

Into  the  poet's  heaven,  and  leaves  dull  grief  below ! 

And  unto  thee — the  beautiful  and  pure — 
Whose  lot  is  cast  amid  that  busy  world 

Where  only  sluggish  Dulness  dwells  secure, 
And  Fancy's  generous  wing  is  faintly  furl'd; 

To  thee — whose  friendship  kept  its  equal  truth 

Through  the  most  dreary  hour  of  my  embitter'd 
youth — 

I  dedicate  the  lay.     Ah  !  never  bard, 

In  days  when  poverty  was  twin  with  song  ; 

Nor  wandering  harper,  lonely  and  ill-starr'd, 
Cheer'd  by  some  castle's  chief,  and  harbour'd  long; 

Not  Scott's  Last  Minstrel,  in  his  trembling  lays, 

Woke  with  a  warmer  heart  the  earnest  meed  of 
praise ! 

For  easy  are  the  alms  the  rich  man  spares 
To  sons  of  Genius,  by  misfortune  bent, 

But  thou  gav'st  me,  what  woman  seldom  dares, 
Belief — in  spite  of  many  a  cold  dissent — 

When,  slander'd  and  malign'd,  I  stood  apart, 

From  those  whose  bounded  power  hath  wrung,  not 
crush'd,  my  heart. 

Then,  then,  when  cowards  lied  away  my  name, 
And  scofF'd  to  see  me  feebly  stem  the  tide ; 

When  some  were  kind  on  whom  I  had  no  claim, 
And  some  forsook  on  whom  my  love  relied, 

And  some,  who  might  have  battled  for  my  sake, 

Stood  off  in  doubt  to  see  what  turn  "  the  world" 
would  take — 

Thou  gavest  me  that  the  poor  do  give  the  poor, 
Kind  words,  and  holy  wishes,  and  true  tears ; 

The  loved,  the  near  of  kin  could  do  no  more, 
Who  changed  not  with  the  gloom  of  varying 

But  clung  the  closer  when  I  stood  forlorn,   [years, 

And  blunted  slander's  dart  with  their  indignant 
scorn. 

For  they  who  credit  crime  are  they  who  feel 
Their  own  hearts  weak  to  unresisted  sin  ; 

Mem'ry,  not  judgment,  prompts  the  thoughts  which 

steal 
O'er  minds  like  these,  an  easy  faith  to  win ; 

And  tales  of  broken  truth  are  still  believed 

Most  readily  by  those  who  have  themselves  deceived. 

But,  like  a  white  swan  down  a  troubled  stream, 
Whose  ruffling  pinion  hath  the  power  to  fling 

Aside  the  turbid  drops  which  darkly  gleam 
And  mar  the  freshness  of  her  snowy  wing, 

So  thou,  with  queenly  grace  and  gentle  pride, 

Along  the  world's  dark  waves  in  purity  dost  glide; 

Thy  pale  and  pearly  cheek  was  never  made 
To  crimson  with  a  faint,  false-hearted  shame; 

TJwu  didst  not  shrink,  of  hitter  tongues  afraid, 
Who  hunt  in  packs  the  object  of  their  blame  ; 


To  thee  the  sad  denial  still  held  true, 
For  from  thine  own  good  thoughts  thy  heart  its 
mercy  drew. 

And,  though  my  faint  and  tributary  rhymes 
Add  nothing  to  the  glory  of  thy  day, 

Yet  every  poet  hopes  that  after-times 
Shall  set  some  value  on  his  votive  lay, 

And  I  would  fain  one  gentle  deed  record 

Among  the  many  such  with  which  thy  life  is  stored. 

So,  when  these  lines,  made  in  a  mournful  hour, 
Are  idly  open'd  to  the  stranger's  eye,  ' 

A  dream  of  thee,  aroused  by  Fancy's  power, 
Shall  be  the  first  to  wander  floating  by  ; 

And  they  who  never  saw  thy  lovely  face, 

Shall  pause,  to  conjure  up  a  vision  of  its  grace  ! 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  DREAM. 

OH,  Twilight !  Spirit  that  does  render  birth 
To  dim  enchantments;  melting  heaven  with  earth, 
Leaving  on  craggy  hills  and  running  streams 
A  softness  like  the  atmosphere  of  dreams ; 
Thy  hour  to  all  is  welcome  !  Faint  and  sweet 
Thy  light  falls  round  the  peasant's  homeward  feet, 
Who,  slow  returning  from  his  task  of  toil, 
Sees  the  low  sunset  gild  the  cultured  soil, 
And,  tho'  such  radiance  round  him  brightly  glows, 
Marks  the  small  spark  his  cottage  window  throws; 
Still  as  his  heart  forestalls  his  weary  pace, 
Fondly  he  dreams  of  each  familiar  face, 
Recalls  the  treasures  of  his  narrow  life, 
His  rosy  children  and  his  sunburnt  wife, 
To  whom  his  coming  is  the  chief  event 
Of  simple  days  in  cheerful  labour  spent. 
The  rich  man's  chariot  hath  gone  whirling  past, 
And  those  poor  cottagers  have  only  cast 
One  careless  glance  on  all  that  show  of  pride, 
Then  to  their  tasks  turn'd  quietly  aside ; 
But  him  they  wait  for,  him  they  welcome  home, 
Fond  sentinels  look  forth  to  see  him  come ; 
The  fagot  sent  for  when  the  fire  grew  dim, 
The  frugal  meal  prepared  are  all  for  him; 
For  him  the  watching  of  that  sturdy  boy, 
For  him  those  smiles  of  tenderness  and  joy, 
For  him — who  plods  his  sauntering  way  along, 
Whistling  the  fragment  of  some  village  song  ! 


TO  MY  BOOKS. 


companions  of  the  lonely  hour, 

Friends,  who  can  never  alter  or  forsake, 
Who  for  inconstant  roving  have  no  power, 

And  all  neglect,  perforce,  must  calmly  take, — 
Let  me  return  to  you  ;  this  turmoil  ending 

Which  worldly  cares  have  in  my  spirit  wrought; 
And,  o'er  your  old  familiar  pages  bending, 

Refresh  my  mind  with  many  a  tranquil  thought, 
Till,  haply  meeting  there,  from  time  to  time, 

Fancies,  the  audible  echo  of  my  own, 
'Twill  be  like  hearing  in  a  foreign  clime 

My  native  language  spoke  in  friendly  tone, 
And  with  a  sort  of  welcome  I  shall  dwell 
On  these,  my  unripe  musings  told  so  well. 
211 


362 


MRS.    NORTON. 


TWILIGHT. 

IT  is  the  twilight  hour, 

The  daylight  toil  is  done, 
And  the  last  rays  are  departing 
Of  the  cold  and  wintry  sun. 
It  is  the  time  when  friendship 
Holds  converse  fair  and  free. 
It  is  the  time  when  children 

Dance  round  the  mother's  knee. 
But  my  soul  is  faint  and  heavy, 

With  a  yearning  sad  and  deep, 
By  the  fireside  lone  and  dreary 

I  sit  me  down  and  weep  ! 
Where  are  ye,  merry  voices, 

Whose  clear  and  bird-like  tone, 
Some  other  ear  now  blesses, 

Less  anxious  than  my  own  1 
Where  are  ye,  steps  of  lightness, 

Which  fell  like  blossom-showers] 
Where  are  ye,  sounds  of  laughter, 

That  cheer'd  the  pleasant  hours  7 
Through  the  dim  light  slow  declining, 

Where  my  wistful  glances  fall, 
I  can  see  your  pictures  hanging 

Against  the  silent  wall ; — 
They  gleam  athwart  the  darkness, 

With  their  sweet  and  changeless  eyes, 
But  mute  are  ye,  my  children  ! 

No  voice  to  mine  replies. 
Where  are  ye?     Are  ye  playing 

By  the  stranger's  blazing  hearth ; 
Forgetting,  in  your  gladness, 

Your  old  home's  former  mirth  1 
Are  ye  dancing  ]     Are  ye  singing  ] 

Are  ye  full  of  childish  glee  ? 
Or  do  your  light  hearts  sadden 

With  the  memory  of  me  ] 
Round  whom,  oh  !  gentle  darlings, 

Do  your  young  arms  fondly  twine, 
Does  she  press  you  to  her  bosom 

Who  hath  taken  you  from  mine  1 
Oh  !  boys,  the  twilight  hour 

Such  a  heavy  time  hath  grown, — 
It  recalls  with  such  deep  anguish 

All  I  used  to  call  my  own, — 
That  the  harshest  word  that  ever 

Was  spoken  to  me  there, 
Would  be  trivial — would  be  welcome — 

In  this  depth  of  my  despair  ! 
Yet  no  !     Despair  shall  sink  not, 
While  life  and  love  remain, — 
Though  the  weary  struggle  haunt  me, 

And  my  prayer  be  made  in  vain : 
Though  at  times  my  spirit  fail  me, 

And  the  bitter  tear-drops  fall, 
Though  my  lot  be  hard  and  lonely, 
Yet  I  hope — I  hope  through  all ! 

When  the  mournful  Jewish  mother 
Laid  her  infant  down  to  rest, 

In  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow, 
On  the  water's  changeful  breast ; 

She  knew  not  what  the  future 
Should  bring  the  sorely  tried  : 


That  the  high  priest  of  her  nation 

Was  the  babe  she  sought  to  hide. 
No  !  in  terror  wildly  flying, 
She  hurried  on  her  path  : 
Her  swoln  heart  full  to  bursting 

Of  woman's  helpless  wrath  ; 
Of  that  wrath  so  blent  with  anguish, 

When  we  seek  to  shield  from  ill 
Those  feeble  little  creatures 

Who  seem  more  helpless  still ! 
Ah  !  no  doubt  in  such  an  hour 

Her  thoughts  were  harsh  and  wild  ; 
The  fiercer  burn'd  her  spirit 

The  more  she  loved  her  child ; 
No  doubt,  a  frenzied  anger 

Was  mingled  with  her  fear, 
When  that  prayer  arose  for  justice 
Which  God  hath  sworn  to  hear. 
He  heard  it !     From  His  heaven, 
In  its  blue  and  boundless  scope, 
He  saw  that  task  of  anguish, 

And  that  fragile  ark  of  hope  ; 
When  she  turn'd  from  that  lost  infant 

Her  weeping  eyes  of  love, 
And  the  cold  reeds  bent  beneath  it — 

His  angels  watch'd  above  ! 
She  was  spared  the  bitter  sorrow 

Of  her  young  child's  early  death, 
Or  the  doubt  where  he  was  carried 

To  draw  his  distant  breath  ; 
She  was  call'd  his  life  to  nourish 

From  the  well-springs  of  her  heart, 
God's  mercy  re-uniting 

Those  whom  man  had  forced  apart ! 

Nor  was  thy  wo  forgotten, 

Whose  worn  and  weary  feet 
Were  driven  from  thy  homestead, 

Through  the  red  sand's  parching  heat ; 
Poor  Hagar !  scorn 'd  and  banish'd, 

That  another's  son  might  be 
Sole  claimant  on  that  father, 

Who  felt  no  more  for  thee. 
Ah  !  when  thy  dark  eye  wander'd, 

Forlorn  Egyptian  slave  ! 
Across  that  lurid  desert, 

And  saw  no  fountain  wave, — 
When  thy  southern  heart,  despairing, 

In  the  passion  of  its  grief, 
Foresaw  no  ray  of  comfort, 

No  shadow  of  relief; 
But  to  cast  the  young  child  from  thee, 

That  thou  might'st  not  see  him  die, 
How  sank  thy  broken  spirit — 

But  the  Lord  of  Hosts  was  nigh  ! 
He  (He,  too  oft  forgotten, 

In  sorrow  as  in  joy) 
Had  will'd  they  should  not  perish — 

The  outcast  and  her  boy  : 
The  cool  breeze  swept  across  them 

From  the  angel's  waving  wing, — 
The  fresh  tide  gush'd  in  brightness 

From  the  fountain's  living  spring, — 
And  they  stood — those  two — forsaken 

By  all  earthly  love  or  aid, 


MRS.    NORTON. 


363 


Upheld  by  God's  firm  promise, 

Serene  and  undismay'd  ! 
And  thou,  Nain's  grieving  widow  ! 

Whose  task  of  life  seem'd  done, 
When  the  pale  corse  lay  before  thee 

Of  thy  dear  and  only  son  ; 
Though  death,  that  fearful  shadow, 

Had  veil'd  his  fair  young  eyes, 
There  was  mercy  for  thy  weeping, 

There  was  pity  for  thy  sighs  ! 
The  gentle  voice  of  Jesus, 

(Who  the  touch  of  sorrow  knew) 
The  grave's  cold  claim  arrested 

E'er  it  hid  him  from  thy  view ; 
And  those  loving  orbs  re-open'd 

And  knew  thy  mournful  face, — 
And  the  stiff  limbs  warm'd  and  bent  them 

With  all  life's  moving  grace, — 
And  his  senses  dawn'd  and  waken'd 

From  the  dark  and  frozen  spell, 
Which  death  had  cast  around  him 

Whom  thou  didst  love  so  well ; 
Till,  like  one  return'd  from  exile 

To  his  former  home  of  rest, 
Who  speaks  not  while  his  mother 

Falls  sobbing  on  his  breast; 
But  with  strange  bewilder'd  glances 

Looks  round  on  objects  near, 
To  recognise  and  welcome 

All  that  memory  held  dear, — 
Thy  young  son  stood  before  thec 

All  living  and  restored, 
And  they  who  saw  the  wonder 

Knelt  down  to  praise  the  Lord ! 

The  twilight  hour  is  over  ! 

In  busier  homes  than  mine, 
I  can  see  the  shadows  crossing 

Athwart  the  taper's  shine  ; 
I  hear  the  roll  of  chariots 

And  the  tread  of  homeward  feet, 
And  the  lamps'  long  rows  of  splendour 

Gleam  through  the  misty  street. 
No  more  I  mark  the  objects 

In  my  cold  and  cheerless  room  ; 
The  fire's  unheeded  embers 

Have  sunk — and  all  is  gloom  ; 
But  I  know  where  hang  your  pictures 

Against  the  silent  wall, 
And  my  eyes  turn  sadly  towards  them, 

Though  I  hope — I  hope  through  all. 
By  the  summons  to  that  mother, 

Whose  fondness  fate  beguiled, 
When  the  tyrant's  gentle  daughter 

Saved  her  river-floating  child  ; — 
By  the  sudden  joy  which  bounded 

In  the  banish'd  Hagar's  heart, 
When  she  saw  the  gushing  fountain 

From  the  sandy  desert  start ; — 
By  the  living  smile  which  greeted 

The  lonely  one  of  Nain, 
When  her  long  last  watch  was  over, 

And  her  hope  seem'd  wild  and  vain; — 
By  all  tho  tender  mercy 

God  hath  shown  to  human  grief, 


When  fate  or  man's  perverseness 

Denied  and  barr'd  relief, — 
By  the  helpless  wo  which  taught  me 

To  look  to  Him  alone, 
From  the  vain  appeals  for  justice 

And  wild  efforts  of  my  own, — 
By  thy  light — thou  unseen  future, 

And  thy  tears — thou  bitter  past, 
I  will  hope — though  all  forsake  me — 

In  His  mercy  to  the  last ! 


THE  BLIND  MAN   TO  HIS  BRIDE. 

WHEN-  first,  beloved,  in  vanish'd  hours 

The  blind  man  sought  thy  love  to  gain, 
They  said  thy  cheek  was  bright  as  flowers 

New  freshen'd  by  the  summer  rain  : 
They  said  thy  movements,  swift  yet  soft, 

Were  such  as  make  the  winged  dove 
Seem,  as  it  gently  soars  aloft, 

The  image  of  repose  and  love. 

They  told  me,  too,  an  eager  crowd 

Of  wooers  praised  thy  beauty  rare ; 
But  that  thy  heart  was  all  too  proud 

A  common  love  to  meet  or  share. 
Ah  !  thine  was  neither  pride  nor  scorn, 

But  in  thy  coy  and  virgin  breast 
Dwelt  preference,  not  of  passion  born, 

The  love  that  hath  a  holier  zest ! 

Days  came  and  went ; — thy  step  I  heard 

Pause  frequent,  as  it  pass'd  me  by  : — 
Days  came  and  went ; — thy  heart  was  stirr'd, 

And  answer'd  to  my  stifled  sigh  ! 
And  thou  didst  make  an  humble  choice, 

Content  to  be  the  blind  man's  bride, 
Who  loved  thee  for  thy  gentle  voice, 

And  own'd  no  joy  on  earth  beside. 

And  well  by  that  sweet  voice  I  knew 

(Without  the  happiness  of  sight) 
Thy  years,  as  yet,  were  glad  and  few, — 

Thy  smile,  most  innocently  bright : 
I  knew  how  full  of  love's  own  grace 

The  beauty  of  thy  form  must  be  ; 
And  fancy  idolized  the  face 

Whose  loveliness  I  might  not  see  ! 

Oh  !  happy  were  those  days,  beloved  ! 

I  almost  ceased  for  light  to  pine 
When  through  the  summer  -vales  we  roved, 

Thy  fond  hand  gently  link'd  in  mine. 
Thy  soft  "  Good  night"  still  sweetly  cheer'd 

The  unbroken  darkness  of  my  doom  ; 
And  thy  «  Good  morrow,  love,"  endear'd 

Each  sunrise  that  return'd  in  gloom  ! 

At  length,  as  years  roll'd  swiftly  on, 

They  spoke  to  me  of  Time's  decay — 
Of  roses  from  thy  smooth  cheek  gone, 

And  ebon  ringlets  turn'd  to  gray. 
Ah  !  then  I  bless'd  the  sightless  eyes 

Which  could  not  feel  the  deepening  shade, 
Nor  watch  beneath  succeeding  skies 

Thy  withering  beauty  faintly  fade. 


364 


MRS.    NORTON. 


/  saw  no  paleness  on  thy  cheek, 

No  lines  upon  thy  forehead  smooth, — 
But  still  the  blind  man  heard  thee  speak 

In  accents  made  to  bless  and  soothe. 
.  Still  he  could  feel  thy  guiding  hand 

As  through  the  woodlands  wild  we  ranged, — 
Still  in  the  summer  light  could  stand, 

And  know  thy  heart  and  voice  unchanged. 

And  still,  beloved,  till  life  grows  cold, 

We  '11  wander  'neath  a  genial  sky, 
And  only  know  that  we  are  old 

By  counting  happy  years  gone  by  : 
For  thou  to  me  art  still  as  fair 

As  when  those  happy  years  began, — 
When  first  thou  earnest  to  sooth  and  share 

The  sorrows  of  a  sightless  man  ! 

Old  Time,  who  changes  all  below, 

To  wean  men  gently  for  the  grave, 
Hath  brought  us  no  increase  of  wo, 

And  leaves  us  all  he  ever  gave  : 
For  I  am  still  a  helpless  thing, 

Whose  darken'd  world  is  cheer'd  by  thee — 
And  thou  art  she  whose  beauty's  spring 

The  blind  man  vainly  yearn'd  to  see  ! 


THE  SENSE  OF  BEAUTY. 

SPIRIT  !  who  over  this  our  mortal  earth, 

Where  naught  hath  birth 

Which  imperfection  doth  not  some  way  dim 

Since  earth  offended  Him — 

Thou  who  unseen,  from  out  thy  radiant  wings 

Dost  shower  down  light  o'er  mean  and  common 

things ; 

And,  wandering  to  and  fro, 

Through  the  condemn'd  and  sinful  world  dost  go, 
Haunting  that  wilderness,  the  human  heart, 
With  gleams  of  glory  that  too  soon  depart, 
Gilding  both  weed  and  flower  ; —  [power  ] 

What  is  thy  birth  divine  1  and  whence  thy  mighty 

The  sculptor  owns  thee !     On  his  high  pale  brow 

Bewildering  images  are  pressing  now  ; 

Groups  whose  immortal  grace 

His  chisel  ne'er  shall  trace, 

Though  in  his  mind  the  fresh  creation  glows ; 

High  forms  of  godlike  strength, 

Or  limbs  whose  languid  length 

The  marble  fixes  in  a  sweet  repose ! 

At  thy  command, 

His  true  and  patient  hand 

Moulds  the  dull  clay  to  beauty's  richest  line, 

Or  with  more  tedious  skill, 

Obedient  to  thy  will, 

By  touches  imperceptible  and  fine, 

Works  slowly  day  by  day 

The  rough-hewn  block  away, 

Till  the  soft  shadow  of  the  bust's  pale  smile 

Wakes  into  statue-life  and  pays  the  assiduous  toil ! 

Thee  the  young  painter  knows, — whose  fervent 

eyes, 
O'er  the  blank  waste  of  canvass  fondly  bending, 


See  fast  within  its  magic  circle  rise 

Some  pictured  scene,  with  colours  softly  blending, — 

Green  bowers  and  leafy  glades, 

The  old  Arcadian  shades, 

Where  thwarting  glimpses  of  the  sun  are  thrown, 

And  dancing  nymphs  and  shepherds  one  by  one 

Appear  to  bless  his  sight 

In  fancy's  glowing  light, 

Peopling  that  spot  of  green  earth's  flowery  breast 

With  every  attitude  of  joy  and  rest. 

Lo  !  at  his  pencil's  touch  steals  faintly  forth 
(Like  an  uprising  star  in  the  cold  north) 
Some  face  which  soon  shall  glow  with  beauty's  fire: 
Dim  seems  the  sketch  to  those  who  stand  around, 
Dim  and  uncertain  as  an  echo'd  sound,    [inspire ! 
But  oh  !  how  bright  to  him,  whose  hand  thou  dost 

Thee,  also,  doth  the  dreaming  poet  hail, 

Fond  comforter  of  many  a  weary  day — 

When  through  the  clouds  his  fancy's  ear  can  sail 

To  worlds  of  radiance  far,  how  far,  away  ! 

At  thy  clear  touch,  (as  at  the  burst  of  light 

Which  morning  shoots  along  the  purple  hills, 

Chasing  the  shadows  of  the  vanish'd  night, 

And  silvering  all  the  darkly  gushing  rills, 

Giving  each  waking  blossom,  gemm'd  with  dew, 

Its  bright  and  proper  hue,) — 

He  suddenly  beholds  the  checker'd  face 

Of  this  old  world  in  its  young  Eden  grace  ! 

Disease,  and  want,  and  sin,  and  pain,  are  not — 

Nor  homely  and  familiar  things : — man's  lot 

Is  like  aspirations — bright  and  high ;  [die, 

And  even  in  the  haunting  thought  that  man  must 

His  dream  so  changes  from  its  fearful  strife, 

Death  seems  but  fainting  into  purer  life  ! 

Nor  only  these  thy  presence  woo, 

The  less  inspired  own  thee  too  ! 

Thou  hast  thy  tranquil  source 

In  the  deep  well-springs  of  the  human  heart, 

And  gushest  with  sweet  force 

When  most  imprison'd  ;  causing  tears  to  start 

In  the  worn  citizen's  o'erwearied  eye, 

As,  with  a  sigh, 

At  the  bright  close  of  some  rare  holiday, 

He  sees  the  branches  wave,  the  waters  play — 

And  hears  the  clock's  far  distant  mellow  chime 

Warn  him  a  busier  world  reclaims  his  time  ! 

Thee,  childhood's  heart  confesses, — when  he  sees 

The  heavy  rose-bud  crimson  in  the  breeze, 

When  the  red  coral  wins  his  eager  gaze, 

Or  the  warm  sunbeam  dazzles  with  its  rays, 

Thee,  through  his  varied  hours  of  rapid  joy, 

The  eager  boy, — 

Who  wild  across  the  grassy  meadow  springs, 

And  still  with  sparkling  eyes 

Pursues  the  uncertain  prize, 

Lured  by  the  velvet  glory  of  its  wings ! 

And  so  from  youth  to  age — yea,  till  the  end — 
An  unforsaking,  unforgetting  friend, 
Thou  hoverest  round  us  !     And  when  all  is  o'er, 
And  earth's  most  loved  illusions  please  no  more, 
Thou  stealest  gently  to  the  couch  of  death; 
There,  while  the  lagging  breath 


MRS.    NORTON. 


365 


Comes  faint  and  fitfully,  to  usher  nigh 

Consoling  visions  from  thy  native  sky, 

Making  it  sweet  to  die  ! 

The  sick  man's  ears  are  faint — his  eyes  are  dim — 

But  his  heart  listens  to  the  heavenward  hymn, 

And  his  soul  sees — in  lieu  of  that  sad  band, 

Who  come  with  mournful  tread 

To  kneel  about  his  bed, — 

God's  white-robed  angels,  who  around  him  stand, 

And  waive  his  spirit  to  "  the  Better  Land  !" 

So,  living, — dying, — still  our  hearts  pursue 
That  loveliness  which  never  met  our  view ; 
Still  to  the  last  thi;  ruling  thought  will  reign, 
Nor  deem  one  feeling  given — was  given  in  vain  ! 
For  it  may  be,  our  banish'd  souls  recall 
In  this,  their  earthly  thrall, 

(With  the  sick  dreams  of  exiles,)  that  far  world 
Whence  angels  once  were  hurl'd ; 
Or  it  may  be,  a  faint  and  trembling  sense, 
Vague,  as  permitted  by  Omnipotence, 
Foreshows  the  immortal  radiance  round  us  shed, 
When  the  imperfect  shall  be  perfected  ! 
Like  the  chain'd  eagle  in  his  fetter'd  might, 
Straining  upon  the  heavens  his  wistful  sight, 
Who  toward  the  upward  glory  fondly  springs, 
With  all  the  vain  strength  of  his  shivering  wings, — 
So  chain'd  to  earth,  and  baffled — yet  so  fond 
Of  the  pure  sky  which  lies  so  far  beyond, 
We  make  the.  attempt  to  soar  in  many  a  thought 
Of  beauty  born,  and  into  beauty  wrought ; 
Dimly  we  struggle  onwards  : — who  shall  say 
Which  glimmering  light  leads  nearest  to  the  day  ? 


THE  MOTHER'S   HEART. 

WHEIST  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and  fond, 
My  eldest-born,  first  hope,  and  dearest  treasure, 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure; 

Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 

So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years, 
And  natural  piety  that  lean'd  to  heaven  ; 

Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears, 
Yet  patient  to  rebuke  when  justly  given — 

Obedient — easy  to  be  reconciled — 

And  meekly  cheerful — such  wert  thou,  my  child  ! 

Not  willing  to  be  left;  still  by  my  side     [dying ; — 
Haunting   my  walks,  while   summer-day  was 

Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn  ;  but  pleased  to  glide 
Through  the  dark  room  where  I  was  sadly  lying, 

Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek, 

Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  feverish  cheek. 

0  boy  !  of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth's  fragile  idols  ;  like  a  tender  flower, 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness, — prone  to  fade, — 
And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder-shower, — 

Still,  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force  to  bind, 

And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind! 

Then  THOU,  my  merry  love; — bold  in  thy  glee, 
Under  the  bouerh.  or  by  the  firelight  dancing, 


With  thy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  spirit  free, 

Didst  come,  as  restless  as  a  bird's  wing  glancing, 
Full  of  a  wild  and  irrepressible  mirth, 
Like  a  young  sunbeam  to  the  gladden'd  earth ! 

Thine  was  the  shout!  the  song!  the  burst  of  joy! 
Which  sweet  from  childhood's  rosy  lip  resound- 

eth: 

Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  naught  could  cloy, 
And  the  glad  heart  from  which   all  grief  re- 

boundeth ; 

And  many  a  mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply, 
Lurk'd  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye ! 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless, 
The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness  wanning ; 

The  coaxing  smile ; — the  frequent  soft  caress  ; — 
The  earnest  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  disarming! 

Again  my  heart  a  new  affection  found,        [bound. 

But  thought  that  love  with  thee  had  reach'd  its 

At  length  THOU  earnest :  thou,  the  last  and  least ; 

Nick-named  "  The  Emperor"  by  thy  laughing 

brothers, 
Because  a  haughty  spirit  swell'd  thy  breast, 

And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the  others; 
Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A  mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile : 

And  oh  !  most  like  a  regal  child  wert  thou  ! 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming ! 
Fair  shoulders — curling  lip — and  dauntless  brow — 

Fit  for  the  world's  strife,  not  for  poet's  dreaming : 
And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 
And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

Different  from  both  !    Yet  each  succeeding  claim, 
I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 

Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same; 
Nor  injured  either,  by  this  love's  comparing; 

Nor  stole  a  fraction  for  the  newer  call — 

But  in  the  mother's  heart,  found  room  for  all ! 


THE  CHILD  OF  EARTH. 

FATXTER  her  slow  step  falls  from  day  to  day, 

Death's  hand  is  heavy  on  her  darkening  brow ; 
Yet  doth  she  fondly  cling  to  earth,  and  say, 

"  I  am  content  to  die,  but,  oh  !  not  now  ! 
Not  while  the  blossoms  of  the  joyous  spring 

Make  the  warm  air  such  luxury  to  breathe  ; 
Not  while  the  birds  such  lays  of  glndness  sing; 

Not  while  bright  flowers  around  my  footsteps 

wreathe. 

Spare  me.  great  God,  lift  up  my  drooping  brow  ! 
I  am  content  to  die — but,  oh !  not  now  !" 

The  spring  hath  ripen'd  into  summer-time, 

The  season's  viewless  boundary  is  past; 
The  glorious  sun  hath  reach'd  his  burning  prime ; 

Oh  !   must  this  glimpse  of  beauty  be  the  last  1 
"  Let  me  not  perish  while  o'er  land  and  lea, 

With  silent  steps  the  lord  of  light  moves  on  ; 
Nor  while  the  murmur  of  the  mountain  bee 

Greets  my  dull  ear  with  music  in  its  tone ! 
Pale  sickness  dims  my  eye,  and  clouds  my  brow; 
I  am  content  to  die — but,  oh  !  not  now  !" 


MRS.    NORTON. 


Summer  is  gone,  and  autumn's  soberer  hues 

Tint  the  ripe  fruits,  and  gild  the  waving  corn  ; 
The  huntsman  swift  the  flying  game  pursues, 

Shouts  the  halloo,  and  winds  his  eager  horn. 
"  Spare  me  awhile  to  wander  forth  and  gaze 

On  the  broad  meadows  and  the  quiet  stream, 
To  watch  in  silence  while  the  evening  rays 

Slant  through  the  fading  trees  with  ruddy  gleam ! 
Cooler  the  breezes  play  around  my  brow  ; 
I  am  content  to  die — but,  oh  !  not  now  !" 

The  bleak  wind  whistles,  snow-showers,  far  and  near, 

Drift  without  echo  to  the  whitening  ground  ; 
Autumn  hath  pass'd  away,  and,  cold  and  drear, 

Winter  stalks  on,  with  frozen  mantle  bound. 
Yet  still  that  pray'r  ascends  : — Oh  !   laughingly 

My  little  brothers  round  the  warm  hearth  crowd, 
Our  home-fire  blazes  broad,  and  bright,  and  high, 

And  the  roof  rings  with  voices  glad  and  loud ; 
Spare  me  awhile !  raise  up  my  drooping  brow  ! 
I  am  content  to  die — but,  oh  !  not  now  !" 

The  spring  is  come  again — the  joyful  spring ! 

Again  the  banks  with  clustering  flowers  are  spread; 
The  wild  bird  dips  upon  its  wanton  wing — 

The  child  of  earth  is  number'd  with  the  dead ! 
"  Thee  never  more  the  sunshine  shall  awake, 
Beaming  all  readily  through  the  lattice-pane  ; 
The  steps  of  friends  thy  slumbers  may  not  break, 

Nor  fond  familiar  voice  arouse  again  ! 
Death's  silent  shadow  veils  thy  darken'd  brow; 
Why  didst  thou  linger] — thou  art  happier  now!" 


ATARAXIA. 

COME  o'er  the  green  hills  to  the  sunny  sea ! — 

The  boundless  sea  that  washeth  many  lands, 
Where  shells  unknown  to  England,  fair  and  free, 

Lie  brightly  scatter'd  on  the  gleaming  sands, 
There,  midst  the  hush  of  slumbering  ocean's  roar, 

We  '11  sit  and  watch  the  silver-tissued  waves 
Creep  languidly  along  the  basking  shore, 

And  kiss  thy  gentle  feet,  like  eastern  slaves. 

And  we  will  take  some  volume  of  our  choice, 

Full  of  a  quiet  poetry  of  thought ; 
And  thou  shalt  read  me,  with  thy  plaintive  voice, 

Lines  which  some  gifted  mind  hath  sweetly 

wrought. 
And  I  will  listen,  gazing  on  thy  face — 

Pale  as  some  cameo  on  the  Italian  shell — 
Or  looking  out  across  the  far  blue  space 

Where  glancing  sails  to  gentle  breezes  swell. 

Come  forth  !  The  sun  hath  flung  on  Thetis'  breast 

The  glittering  tresses  of  his  golden  hair  ; 
All  things  are  heavy  with  a  noonday  rest, 

And  floating  sea-birds  leave  the  sttrless  air. 
Against  the  sky,  in  outlines  clear  and  rude, 

The  cleft  rocks   stand,   while   sunbeams  slant 

between  ; 
And  lulling  winds  are  murmuring  through  the  wood 

Which  skirts  the  bright  bay  with  its  fringe  of  green. 


Come  forth  !     All  motion  is  so  gentle  now, 

It  seems  thy  step  alone  should  walk  the  earth — 
Thy  voice  alone,  the  "  ever  soft  and  low," 

Wake  the  far-haunting  echoes  into  birth. 
Too  wild    would    be  Love's   passionate   store  of 
hope — 

Unmeet  the  influence  of  his  changeful  power ; 
Ours  be  companionship,  whose  gentle  scope 

Hath  charm  enough  for  such  a  tranquil  hour. 

In  that,  no  jealousy — no  wild  regret 

Lies  like  deep  poison  in  a  flower's  bright  cup, 
Which  thirsty  lips  for  ever  seek,  and  yet 

For  ever  murmur  as  they  drink  it  up. 
The  memory  of  thy  beauty  ne'er  can  rise 

With  haunting  bitterness  in  days  to  come  ; 
TJiy  name  can  never  choke  my  heart  with  sighs, 

Nor  leave  the  vex'd  tongue  faltering,  faint,  and 
dumb. 

Therefore  come  forth,  oh  gentle  friend  !  and  roam 

Where  the  high  cliffs  shall  give  us  ample  shade, 
And  see  how  glassy  lie  the  waves,  whose  foam 

Hath  power  to  make  the  seaman's  heart  afraid. 
Seek  thou  no  veil  to  shroud  thy  soft  brown  hair — 

Wrap  thou  no  mantle  round  thy  graceful  form  ; 
The  cloudless  sky  smiles  forth  as  still  and  fair 

As  though  earth  ne'er  could  know  another  storm. 

Come  !  Let  not  listless  sadness  make  delay — 

Beneath  heaven's  light  that  sadness  will  depart ; 
And  as  we  wander  on  our  shoreward  way, 

A  strange,  sweet  peace  shall  enter  in  thine  heart. 
We  will  not  weep,  nor  talk  of  vanish'd  years, 

When,  link  by  link,  Hope's  glittering  chain  was 

riven  ; 
Those  who  are  dead  shall  claim  from  love  no  tears — 

Those  who  have  injured  us  shall  be  forgiven. 

Few  have  my  summers  been,  and  fewer  thine  ; 

Youth  ruin'd  is  the  weary  lot  of  both  ; 
To  both,  all  lonely  shows  our  life's  decline — 

Both  with  old  friends  and  ties  have  waxed  wroth. 
But  yet  we  will  not  weep  !  The  breathless  calm 

Which  lulls  the  golden  earth,  and  wide  blue  sea, 
Shall  pour  into  our  souls  mysterious  balm, 

And  fill  us  with  its  own  tranquillity. 

We  will  not  mar  the  scene — we  will  not  look 

To  the  veil'd  future,  or  the  shadowy  past ; 
Seal'd  up  shall  be  sad  Memory's  open  book, 

And  childhood's  idleness  return  at  last ! . 
Joy,  with  his  restless,  ever-fluttering  wings, 

And  Hope,  his  gentle  brother — all  shall  cease ; 
Like  weary  hinds  that  seek  the  desert  springs, 

Our  one  sole  feeling  shall  be  peace — deep  peace  ! 

Then  come !     Come  o'er  the  green  hills  to  the  sea — 

The  boundless  sea  that  washeth  many  lands; 
And  with  thy  plaintive  voice,  oh  !  read  to  me, 

As  we  two  sit  upon  the  golden  sands. 
And  I  will  listen,  gazing  on  that  face — 

Pale  as  some  cameo  on  the  Italian  shell — 
Or  looking  out  across  the  far  blue  space 

Where  glancing  sails  to  gentle  breezes  swell ! 


MRS.    NORTON. 


367 


THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  SON'S  BE- 
TROTHED. 

AH,  cease  to  plead  with  that  sweet  cheerful  voice, 

Nor  bid  me  struggle  with  a  weight  of  wo, 
Lest  from  the  very  tone  that  says  «  rejoice," 

A  double  bitterness  of  grief  should  grow ; 
Those   words  from  THEE  convey  no  gladdening 
thought, 

No  sound  of  comfort  lingers  in  their  tone, 
But  by  their  means  a  haunting  shade  is  brought 

Of  love  and  happiness  for  ever  gone  ! 

My  son ! — alas,  hast  thou  forgotten  him, 

That  thou  art  full  of  hopeful  plans  again  ? 
His  heart  is  cold — his  joyous  eyes  are  dim, — 

For  him  the  future  is  a  word  in  vain ! 
He  never  more  the  welcome  hours  may  share, 

Nor  bid  love's  sunshine  cheer  our  lonely  home, — 
How  hast  thou  conquer'd  all  the  long  despair 

Born  of  that  sentence — He  is  in  the  tomb  ? 

How  can  thy  hand  with  cheerful  fondness  press 

The  hands  of  friends  who  still  on  earth  may  stay — 
Remembering  his  most  passionate  caress 

When  the  long  parting  sumrnon'd  him  away  ? 
How  canst  thou  keep  from  bitter  weeping,  while 

Strange  voices  tell  thee  thou  art  brightly  fair — 
Remembering  how  he  loved  thy  playful  smile, 

Kiss'd  thy  smooth  cheek,  and  praised  thy  bur- 
nish'd  hair?" 

How  canst  thou  laugh  1     How  canst  thou  warble 

songs  ] 

How  canst  thou  lightly  tread  the  meadow-fields, 
Praising  the  freshness  which  to  spring  belongs, 
And  the  sweet  incense  which  the  hedge-flower 

yields  1 
Does  not  the  many-blossom'd  spring  recall, 

Our  pleasant  walks  through  cowslip-spangled 

meads, — 

The  violet-scented  lanes — the  warm  south-wall, 
Where  early  flow'rets  rear'd  their  welcome  heads? 

Does  not  remembrance  darken  on  thy  brow 

When  the  wild  rose  a  richer  fragrance  flings — 
When  the  caressing  breezes  lift  the  bough, 

And  the  sweet  thrush  more  passionately  sings ; — 
Dost  thou  not,  then,  lament  for  him  whose  form 

Was  ever  near  thee,  full  of  earnest  grace  ? 
Does  not  the  sudden  darkness  of  the  storm 

Seem  luridly  to  fall  on  nature's  face  1 

It  does  to  ME  !    The  murmuring  summer  breeze, 

Which  thou  dost  turn  thy  glowing  cheek  to  meet, 
For  rne  sweeps  desolately  through  the  trees, 

And  moans  a  dying  requiem  at  my  feet ! 
The  glistening  river  which  in  beauty  glides, 

Sparkling  arid  blue  with  morn's  triumphant  light, 
All  lonely  flows,  or  in  its  bosom  hides 

A  broken  image  lost  to  human  sight ! 

But  THOU  ! — Ah  !  turn  thee  not  in  grief  away  ; 

I  do  not  wish  thy  soul  as  sadly  wrung — 
I  know  the  freedom  of  thy  spirit's  play, 

I  know  thy  bounding  heart  is  fresh  arid  young: 


I  know  corroding  Time  will  slowly  break 

The  links  which  bound  most  fondly  and  most  fast, 

And  Hope  will  be  youth's  comforter,  and  make 
The  long  bright  future  overweigh  the  past. 

Only,  when  full  of  tears  I  raise  mine  eyes 

And  meet  thine  ever  full  of  smiling  light, 
I  feel  as  though  thy  vanish'd  sympathies 

WTere  buried  in  his  grave,  where  all  is  night ; 
And  when  beside  our  lonely  hearth  I  sit, 

And  thy  light  laugh  comes  echoing  to  my  ear, 
I  wonder  how  the  waste  of  mirth  and  wit 

Hath  still  the  power  thy  widow'd 'heart  to  cheer  ! 

Bear  with  me  yet !    Mine  is  a  harsh  complaint ! 

And  thy  youth's  innocent  light-heartedness 
Should  rather  soothe  me  when  my  spirit's  faint 

Than  seem  to  mock  my  age's  lone  distress. 
But  oh  !  the  tide  of  grief  is  swelling  high, 

And  if  so  soon  forgetfulness  must  be — 
If,  for  the  dead,  thou  hast  no  further  sigh,       [me ! 

Weep  for  his  mother ! — Weep,  young  bride,  for 


WEEP  NOT  FOR  HIM  THAT  DIETH.* 

WEEP  not  for  him  that  dieth — 

For  he  sleeps,  and  is  at  rest ; 
And  the  couch  whereon  he  lieth 

Is  the  green  earth's  quiet  breast  : 
But  weep  for  him  who  pineth 

On  a  far  land's  hateful  shore, 
Wrho  wearily  declineth 

Where  ye  see  his  face  no  more ! 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  friends  are  round  his  bed, 
And  many  a  young  lip  sigheth 

When  they  name  the  early  dead  ; 
But  weep  for  him  that  liveth 

Where  none  will  know  or  care, 
When  the  groan  his  faint  heart  giveth 

Is  the  last  sigh  of  despair. 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  his  struggling  soul  is  free, 
And  the  world  from  which  it  flieth 

Is  a  world  of  misery  ; 
But  weep  for  him  that  weareth 

The  captive's  galling  chain  : 
To  the  agony  he  beareth, 

Death  were  but  little  pain. 

Weep  not  for  him  that  dieth, 

For  he  has  ceased  from  tears, 
And  a  voice  to  his  replieth 

Which  he  hath  not  heard  for  years ; 
But  weep  for  him  who  weepeth 

On  that  cold  land's  cruel  shore — 
Blest,  blest  is  he  that  sleepeth, — 

Weep  for  the  dead  no  more ! 


*  "  Weep  ye  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him  ;  but 
weep  sore  for  him  that  poeth  away,  for  he  shall  return 
no  more,  nor  see  his  native  country." — Jeremiah  xxii.  10. 


368 


MRS.    NORTON. 


THE  ARAB'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS 
HORSE. 

My  beautiful !  my  beautiful ! 

That  standest  meekly  by 
With  thy  proudly  arch'd  and  glossy  neck, 

And  dark  and  fiery  eye  ; 
Fret  not  to  roam  the  desert  now, 

With  all  thy  winged  speed — 
/  may  not  mount  on  thee  again — 

Thou  'rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed ! 
Fret  not  with  that  impatient  hoof — 

Snuff  not  the  breezy  wind — 
The  further  that  thou  fliest  now, 

So  far  am  I  behind  ; 
The  stranger  hath  thy  bridle  rein — 

Thy  master  hath  his  gold — 
Fleet-limb'd  and  beautiful !  farewell ! — 

Thou  'rt  sold,  my  steed — thou  'rt  sold  ! 

Farewell !  those  free  untired  limbs 

Full  many  a  mile  must  roam, 
To  reach  the  chill  and  wintry  sky, 

Which  clouds  the  stranger's  home  ; 
Some  other  hand,  less  fond,  must  now 

Thy  corn  and  bread  prepare : 
The  silky  mane  I  braided  once, 

Must  be  another's  care  ! 
The  morning  sun  shall  dawn  again, 

But  never  more  with  thee 
Shall  [  gallop  through  the  desert  paths, 

Where  we  were  wont  to  be ; 
Evening  shall  darken  on  the  earth ; 

And  o'er  the  sandy  plain 
Some  other  steed,  with  slower  step, 

Shall  bear  me  home  again. 

Yes,  thou  must  go  !  the  wild,  free  breeze, 

The  brilliant  sun  and  sky, 
Thy  master's  home — from  all  of  these, 

My  exiled  one  must  fly. 
Thy  proud,  dark  eye  will  grow  less  proud, 

Thy  step  become  less  fleet, 
And  vainly  shalt  thou  arch  thy  neck, 

Thy  master's  hand  to  meet. 
Only  in  sleep  shall  I  behold 

That  dark  eye,  glancing  bright — 
Only  in  sleep  shall  hear  again 

That  step  so  firm  and  light: 
And  when  I  raise  my  dreaming  arm 

To  check  or  cheer  thy  speed, 
Then  must  I  starting  wake,  to  feel — 

Thou  'rt  sold,  my  Arab  steed  ! 

Ah !  rudely  then,  unseen  by  me, 

Some  cruel  hand  may  chide, 
Till  foam-wreaths  lie,  like  crested  waves, 

Along  thy  panting  side  : 
And  the  rich  blood  that's  in  thee  swells, 

In  thy  indignant  pain, 
Till  careless  eyes,  which  rest  on  thee, 

May  count  each  started  vein. 
Will  they  ill  use  thee  1     If  I  thought — 

But  no,  it  cannot  be—- 
Thou art  so  swift,  yet  easy  curb'd ; 

So  gentle,  yet  so  free. 


And  yet,  if  haply  when  thou  'rt  gone, 
My  lonely  heart  should  yearn — 

Can  the  hand  which  casts  thee  from  it  now, 
Command  thee  to  return  1 

Return  ! — alas  !  my  Arab  steed  ! 

What  shall  thy  master  do, 
When  thou,  who  wert  his  all  of  joy, 

Hast  vanish'd  from  his  view  1 
When  the  dim  distance  cheats  mine  eye, 

And  through  the  gathering  tears 
Thy  bright  form,  for  a  moment, 

Like  the  false  mirage  appears. 
Slow  and  unmounted  will  I  roam, 

With  weary  foot  alone, 
Where  with  fleet  step  and  joyous  bound 

Thou  oft  has  borne  me  on  ; 
And  sitting  down  by  that  green  well, 

I  '11  pause  and  sadly  think, 
"  It  was  here  he  bow'd  his  glossy  neck, 

When  last  I  saw  him  drink !" 

When  last  I  saw  thee  drink  ! — away  ! 

The  fever'd  dream  is  o'er — 
I  could  not  live  a  day,  and  know 

That  we  should  meet  no  more ! 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful  ! 

For  hunger's  power  is  strong — 
They  tempted  me,  my  beautiful ! 

But  I  have  loved  too  long. 
Who  said  that  I  had  given  thee  up  1 — 

Who  said  that  Ihou  wert  sold  1 
'Tis  false,— 'tis  false,  my  Arab  steed  ! 

I  fling  them  back  their  gold  ! 
Thus,  thus,  I  leap  upon  thy  back, 

And  scour  the  distant  plains  ; 
Away  !  who  overtakes  us  now, 

Shall  claim  thee  for  his  pains. 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 

WE  have  been  friends  together, ' 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade  ; 
Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut  trees 

In  infancy  we  play'd. 
But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow ; 
We  have  been  friends  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  1 

We  have  been  gay  together ; 

We  have  laugh'd  at  little  jests  ; 
For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing 

Warm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts. 
But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow ; 
We  have  been  gay  together — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together, 

We  have  wept  with  bitter  tears, 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slumber'd 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  are  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  sad  together — 

Oh  !  what  shall  part  us  now  ? 


MRS.    NORTON. 


369 


RECOLLECTIONS. 

Do  you  remember  all  the  sunny  places,     [gether  1 

Where  in  bright  days,  long  past,  we  play'd  to- 
Do  you  remember  all  the  old  home  faces 

That  gather'd  round  the  hearth  in  wintry  weather? 
Do  you  remember  all  the  happy  meetings, 

In  Summer  evenings  round  the  open  door — 
Kind  looks,  kind  hearts,  kind  words  and  tender 
greetings, 

And  clasping  hands  whose  pulses  beat  no  more  1 
Do  you  remember  them  ] 

Do  you  remember  all  the  merry  laughter ; 

The  voices  round  the  swing  in  our  old  garden : 
The  dog  that,  when  we  ran,  still  follow'd  after ; 

The  teazing  frolic  sure  of  speedy  pardon  : 
We  were  but  children  then,  young  happy  creatures, 

And  hardly  knew  how  much  we  had  to  lose — 
But  now  the  dreamlike  memory  of  those  features 

Comes  back,  and  bids  my  darken'd  spirit  muse. 
Do  you  remember  them  ? 

Do  you  remember  when  we  first  departed 

From  all  the  old  companions  who  were  round  us, 
How  very  soon  again  we  grew  light-hearted, 

And  talk'd  with  smiles  of  all  the  links  which 

bound  us  ? 
And  after,  when  our  footsteps  were  returning, 

With  unfelt  weariness,  o'er  hill  and  plain  ; 
How  our  young  hearts  kept  boiling  up,  and  burning, 

To  think  how  soon  we'd  be  at  home  again, 
Do  you  remember  this  1 

Do  you  remember  how  the  dreams  of  glory 
Kept  fading  from  us  like  a  fairy  treasure  ; 
How  we  thought  less  of  being  famed  in  story, 
And  more  of  those  to  whom  our  fame  gave  plea- 
sure. 

Do  you  remember  in  far  countries,  weeping, 
When  a  light  breeze,  a  flower,  hath  brought  to  mind 
Old  happy  thoughts,  which  till  that  hour  were 

sleeping, 
And  made  us  yearn  for  those  we  left  behind  ? 

Do  you  remember  this  1 

Do  you  remember  when  no  sound  woke  gladly, 
But  desolate  echoes  through  our  home  were 

ringing, 

How  for  a  while  we  talk'd — then  paused  full  sadly, 

Because  our  voices  bitter  thoughts  were  bringing'! 

Ah  me  !  those  days — those  days  !  my  friend,  my 

brother, 

Sit  down,  and  let  us  talk  of  all  our  wo, 
For  we  have  nothing  left  but  one  another ; — 
Yet  where  they  went,  old  playmate,  we  shall  go — 
Let  us  remember  this. 


SONNET. 

BE  frank  with  me,  and  I  accept  my  lot ; 

But  deal  not  with  me  as  a  grieving  child, 
Who  for  the  loss  of  that  which  he  hath  not 

Is  by  a  show  of  kindness  thus  beguiled. 
47 


Raise  not  for  me,  from  its  enshrouded  tomb, 

The  ghostly  likeness  of  a  hope  deceased  ; 
Nor  think  to  cheat  the  darkness  of  my  doom 

By  wavering  doubts  how  far  thou  art  released  : 
This  dressing  pity  in  the  garb  of  love, — 

This  effort  of  the  heart  to  seem  the  same, — 
These  sighs  and  lingerings,  (which  nothing  prove 

But  that  thou  leavest  me  with  a  kind  of  shame,) — 
Remind  me  more,  by  their  most  vain  deceit, 
Of  the  dear  loss  of  all  which  thou  dost  counterfeit. 


THE  FALLEN  LEAVES. 

WE  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves, 

Young  children  at  our  play, 
And  laugh  to  see  the  yellow  things 

Go  rustling  on  their  way  : 
Right  merrily  we  hunt  them  down, 

The  autumn  winds  and  we, 
Nor  pause  to  gaze  where  snow-drifts  lie, 

Or  sunbeams  gild  the  tree  : 
With  dancing  feet  we  leap  along 

Where  wither'd  boughs  are  strown  ; 
Nor  past  nor  future  checks  our  song — 

The  present  is  our  own. 

We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves 

In  youth's  enchanted  spring — 
When  hope  (who  wearies  at  the  last) 

First  spreads  her  eagle  wing. 
We  tread  with  steps  of  conscious  strength 

Beneath  the  leafless  trees, 
And  the  colour  kindles  in  our  cheek 

As  blows  the  winter  breeze  ; 
While,  gazing  towards  the  cold  gray  sky, 

Clouded  with  snow  and  rain, 
We  wish  the  old  year  all  past  by, 

And  the  young  spring  come  again. 

We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves 

In  manhood's  haughty  prime — 
When  first  our  pausing  hearts  begin 

To  love  « the  olden  time ;" 
And,  as  we  gaze,  we  sigh  to  think 

How  many  a  year  hath  pass'd 
Since  neath  those  cold  and  faded  trees 

Our  footsteps  wander' d  last ; 
And  old  companions — now  perchance 

Estranged,  forgot,  or  dead — 
Come  round  us,  as  those  autumn  leaves 

4re  crush'd  beneath  our  tread. 

We  stand  among  the  fallen  leaves 

In  our  own  autumn  day — 
And,  tottering  on  with  feeble  steps, 

Pursue  our  cheerless  way. 
We  look  not  back — too  long  ago 

Hath  all  we  loved  been  lost ; 
Nor  forward — for  we  may  not  live 

To  see  our  new  hope  cross'd : 
But  on  we  go — the  sun's  faint  beam 

A  feeble  warmth  imparts — 
Childhood  without  its  joy  returns — 

The  present  fills  our  hearts  ! 


370 


MRS.    NORTON. 


THE   CARELESS  WORD, 

A  WORD  is  ringing  through  my  brain: 
It  was  not  meant  to  give  me  pain  ; 
It  had  no  tone  to  bid  it  stay, 
When  other  things  had  pass'd  away ; 
It  had  no  meaning  more  than  all 
Which  in  an  idle  hour  fall : 
It  was  \vhenjirst  the  sound  I  heard 
A  lightly-utter'd,  careless  word. 

That  word — oh  !  it  doth  haunt  me  now, 
In  scenes  of  joy,  in  scenes  of  wo  ; 
By  night,  by  day,  in  sun  or  shade, 
With  the  half  smile  that  gently  play'd 
Reproachfully,  and  gave  the  sound 
Eternal  power  through  life  to  wound. 
There  is  no  voice  I  ever  heard 
So  deeply  fix'd  as  that  one  word. 

When  in  the  laughing  crowd  some  tone, 
Like  those  whose  jo}fous  sound  is  gone, 
Strikes  on  my  ear,  I  shrink — for  then 
The  careless  word  conies  back  again. 
When  all  alone  I  sit  and  gaze 
Upon  the  cheerful  home-fire  blaze, 
Lo !  freshly  as  when  first  'twas  heard, 
Returns  that  lightly-utter'd  word. 

When  dreams  bring  back  the  days  of  old, 
With  all  that  wishes  could  not  hold  ; 
And  from  my  feverish  couch  I  start 
To  press  a  shadow  to  my  heart — 
Amid  its  beating  echoes,  clear 
That  little  word  I  seem  to  hear  : 
In  vain  I  say,  while  it  is  heard, 
Why  weep! — 'twas  but  a  foolish  word. 

It  comes — and  with  it  come  the  tears, 
The  hopes,  the  joys  of  former  years ; 
Forgotten  smiles,  forgotten  looks, 
Thick  as  dead  leaves  on  autumn  brooks, 
And  all  as  joyless,  though  they  were 
The  brightest  things  life's  spring  could  share. 
Oh  !  would  to  God  I  ne'er  had  heard 
That  lightly-utter'd,  careless  word  ! 

It  was  the  first,  the  only  one 

Of  these  which  lips  forever  gone 

Breathed  in  their  love — which  had  for  me 

Rebuke  of  harshness  at  my  glee : 

And  if  those  lips  were  heard  to  say,         » 

"  Beloved,  let  it  pass  away," 

Ah  !  then,  perchance — but  I  have  heard 

The  last  dear  tone — the  careless  word ! 

Oh  !  ye  who,  meeting,  sigh  to  part, 
Whose  words  are  treasures  to  some  heart, 
Deal  gently,  ere  the  dark  days  come, 
When  earth  hath  but  for  one  a  home ; 
Lest,  musing  o'er  the  past,  like  me, 
They  feel  their  hearts  wrung  bitterly, 
And,  heeding  not  what  else  they  heard, 
Dwell  weeping  on  a  careless  word. 


THE  MOURNERS. 

Low  she  lies,  who  blest  our  eyes 

Through  many  a  sunny  day ; 
She  may  not  smile,  she  will  not  rise— 

The  life  hath  past  away  ! 
Yet  there  is  a  world  of  light  beyond, 

Where  we  neither  die  nor  sleep — 
She  is  there,  of  whom  our  souls  were  fond — 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ] 

The  heart  is  cold,  whose  thoughts  were  told 

In  each  glance  of  her  glad  bright  eye ; 
And  she  lies  pale,  who  was  so  bright, 

She  scarce  seem'd  made  to  die. 
Yet  we  know  that  her  soul  is  happy  now, 

Where  the  saints  their  calm  watch  keep ; 
That  angels  are  crowning  that  fair  young  brow — 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  1 

Her  laughing  voice  made  all  rejoice, 

Who  caught  the  happy  sound  ; 
There  was  gladness  in  her  very  step, 

As  it  lightly  touch'd  the  ground. 
The  echoes  of  voice  and  step  are  gone  ; 

There  is  silence  still  and  deep : 
Yet  we  know  she  sings  by  God's  bright  throne — 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  1 

The  cheek's  pale  tinge,  the  lid's  dark  fringe, 

That  lies  like  a  shadow  there, 
Were  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  all — 

And  her  glossy  golden  hair  ! 
But  though  that  lid  may  never  wake 

From  its  dark  and  dreamless  sleep, 
She  is  gone  were  young  hearts  do  not  break — 

Then  wherefore  do  we  weep  ? 

That  world  of  light  with  joy  is  bright, 

This  is  a  world  of  wo  : 
Shall  we  grieve  that  her  soul  hath  taken  flight, 

Because  we  dwell  below  ? 
We  will  bury  her  under  the  mossy  sod, 

And  one  long  bright  tress  we  '11  keep ; 
We  have  only  given  her  back  to  God — 

Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  weep  1 


SONNET. 

LIKE  an  enfranchised  bird,  who  wildly  springs, 

With  a  keen  sparkle  in  his  glancing  eye 
And  a  strong  effort  in  his  quivering  wings, 

Up  to  the  blue  vault  of  the  happy  sky, — 
So  my  enamour'd  heart,  so  long  thine  own, 

At  length  from  love's  imprisonment  set  free, 
Goes  forth  into  the  open  world  alone, 

Glad  and  exulting  in  its  liberty  : 
But  like  that  helpless  bird,  (confined  so  long, 

His  weary  wings  have  lost  all  power  to  soar, 
Who  soon  forgets  to  trill  his  joyous  song, 

And,  feebly  fluttering,  sinks  to  earth  once  more,) 
So,  from  its  former  bonds  released  in  vain,  [chain. 
My  heart  still  feels  the  weight  of  that  remcmber'd 


JOHN    STERLING. 


DURING  the  last  five  or  six  years  the  readers 
of  Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine  have 
been  from  time  to  time  delighted  by  the  ap- 
pearance in  that  popular  miscellany  of  various 
papers  under  the  signature  of  ARCH^US. 
Among  them  has  been  a  series  in  prose,  en- 
titled "Legendary  Lore,"  from  which  "The 
Onyx  Ring,"  a  story  of  thrilling  interest,  and 
several  other  essays  and  tales,  have  been  re- 
printed in  this  country.  But  superior  to  the 
prose  articles — -beautiful  and  highly  wrought 
as  these  are — are  the  author's  poetical  writ- 
ings, distinguished  alike  for  purity  of  thought, 
delicacy  of  fancy,  and  depth  and  tenderness 
of  feeling.  "  They  have  the  pleasing  tone  of 


WORDSWORTH,  without  the  mannerism  of 
phrase  and  imagery  by  which  the  imitators 
of  that  poet  are  distinguished." 

A  collection  of  these  poems,  with  one  much 
longer  than  any  that  had  appeared  in  Black- 
wood's  Magazine,  entitled  "The  Sexton's 
Daughter,"  was  published  in  London,  in 
1839,  and  it  was  then  discovered  that  they 
were  written  by  JOHN  STERLING,  in  early  life 
a  clergyman,  and  latterly  a  student  in  philo- 
sophy and  man  of  letters.  He  subsequently 
wrote  "  Hymns  of  a  Hermit"  and  "  Strafford, 
a  Tragedy."  Since  the  first  edition  of  this 
work  was  published  we  have  heard  of  his 
death,  which  occurred  in  September,  1844. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

DEAR  child !  whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame, 
As  live  and  beautiful  as  flame, 
Thou  glancest  round  my  graver  hours 
As  if  thy  crown  of  wild-wood  flowers 
Were  not  by  mortal  forehead  worn, 
But  on  the  summer  breeze  were  borne, 
Or  on  a  mountain  streamlet's  waves, 
Came  glistening  down  from  dreamy  caves. 

With  bright  round  cheek,  amid  whose  glow 
Delight  and  wonder  come  and  go, 
And  eyes  whose  inward  meanings  play, 
Congenial  with  the  light  of  day, 
And  brow  so  calm,  a  home  for  thought, 
Before  he  knows  his  dwelling  wrought ; 
Though  wise  indeed  thou  seemest  not, 
Thou  brightenest  well  the  wise  man's  lot. 

That  shout  proclaims  the  undoubting  mind, 
That  laughter  leaves  no  ache  behind ; 
And  in  thy  look  and  dance  of  glee, 
Unforced,  unthought  of,  simply  free, 
How  weak  the  schoolman's  formal  art 
Thy  soul  and  body's  bliss  to  part ! 
I  hail  the  childhood's  very  lord, 
In  gaze  and  glance,  in  voice  and  word. 

In  spite  of  all  foreboding  fear, 
A  thing  thou  art  of  present  cheer  ; 
And  thus  to  be  beloved  and  knowa 
As  is  a  rushy  fountain's  tone, 
As  is  the  forest's  leafy  shade, 
Or  blackbird's  hidden  serenade  : 
Thou  art  a  flash  that  lights  the  whole  ; 
A  gush  from  nature's  vernal  soul. 


And  yet,  dear  child !  within  thee  lives 
A  power  that  deeper  feeling  gives, 
That  makes  thee  more  than  light  or  air, 
Than  all  things  sweet  and  all  things  fair ; 
And  sweet  and  fair  as  aught  may  be, 
Diviner  life  belongs  to  thee, 
For  mid  thine  aimless  joys  began 
The  perfect  heart  and  will  of  man. 

Thus  what  thou  art  foreshows  to  me 
How  greater  far  thou  soon  shalt  be ; 
And  while  amid  thy  garlands  blow 
The  winds  that  warbling  come  and  go, 
Ever  within  not  loud  but  clear 
Prophetic  murmur  fills  the  ear, 
And  says  that  every  human  birth 
Anew  discloses  God  to  earth. 


PROSE  AND  SONG. 

I  LOOK'D  upon  a  plain  of  green, 

That  some  one  call'd  the  land  of  prose, 

Where  many  living  things  were  seen, 
In  movement  or  repose. 

I  look'd  upon  a  stately  hill 

That  well  was  named  the  mount  of  song, 
Where  golden  shadows  dwelt  at  will 

The  woods  and  streams  among. 

But  most  this  fact  my  wonder  bred, 

Though  known  by  all  the  nobly  wise, — 

It  was  the  mountain  streams  that  fed 
The  fair  green  plain's  amenities. 

371 


372 


JOHN    STERLING. 


APHRODITE. 


A  spmyG-TixE  eve  illumined  wide 

A  sunny  Grecian  land, 
Where  peace  was  guarded  valiantly 

By  many  a  spearman's  hand  ; 
From  field  and  vineyard  home  return'd 

The  weary  peasant  crew, 
And  children  laugh'd  and  leap'd  to  see 

Their  fathers  come  in  view. 

ii. 
The  closing  twilight  dimly  fell 

Above  the  smoking  roofs  ; 
The  labourers'  eyes  dropp'd  heavily; 

The  housewives  left  their  woofs  ; 
While  softly  flew  the  western  breeze 

Above  the  woods  and  streams, 
But  breathed  too  low  to  sound  amid 

The  slumberers'  easy  dreams. 

in. 
As  on  each  lonely  silent  hearth 

The  blaze  was  flickering  low, 
The  shaggy  wolf-dog  stretch'd  himself 

Before  the  crimson  glow  ; 
And  shy  nocturnal  visitants, 

And  horny-footed  Pan, 
Through  all  the  village  wander'd  slow 

To  guard  the  rest  of  man. 

IV. 

The  mourners  felt  it  comfort  now 

That  they  were  free  to  weep, 
And  in  their  musing  youthful  minds 

Went  smilingly  to  sleep  ; 
And  some  in  joyous  vision  sought 

The  dance  in  flowery  glades, 
And  some  a  tenderer  delight, 

Unseen  in  forest  shades. 

v. 
Yet  one  of  all  the  loveliest, 

Young  Myrto,  sought  not  rest, 
By  crowding  fancies  kept  awake 

That  flutter'd  in  her  breast, 
While  mid  the  pillar'd  porch  she  sat 

Of  her  old  sire's  abode, 
Unheeding  that  beneath  the  stars 

Her  zoneless  bosom  glow'd. 

VI. 

She  stoop'd  her  head,  whose  tresses  hid 

Her  clench'd  and  trembling  hand  ; 
She  felt  her  heart  swell  proudlier 

Than  in  its  purple  band  ; 
And  such  the  rippling  stir  of  life 

Upon  her  earnest  face, 
It  seem'd  a  stormy  spirit  fill'd 

A  form  of  marble  grace. 

VII. 

"  And  let,"  she  thought,  "  the  poet  bear 

.     His  sounding  lyre  and  song, 

And  still  through  temple,  field,  and  mart 

My  tuneful  fame  prolong  ; 
For  if  I  but  repay  the  strain 

With  word  or  look  of  praise, 
'T  is  then  the  last  of  love  and  verse, 

The  first  of  slavery's  days. 


"  Then  with  the  boisterous  wedding  comes 

The  dark,  unhonour'd  life; 
The  worshipp'd  goddess,  fading  then, 

Is  known  an  earthly  wife  ; 
And  all  the  longing  sighs  that  now 

In  all  its  utterance  play, 
But  like  a  tedious  burden  round 

An  old-remember'd  lay. 

IX, 

"  And  if  at  last  from  long  disdain, 

And  cold,  averted  eyes, 
To  other  lands  and  cities  now 

The  bard  in  anguish  flies, 
To  other  springs,  and  hills,  and  woods, 

And  other  ears  than  these, 
My  name  in  melody  will  sound, 

And  sail  on  distant  seas. 

x. 

"  And  if  in  cave,  or  desert  path, 

Or  at  triumphal  feast, 
The  journeying  minstrel  sinks  in  death, 

From  hopeless  toil  released  ; 
Upon  his  tomb  be  this  inscribed, — 

That  he  for  Myrto  died ; 
And  let  his  last  lament  record 

Her  beauty  and  her  pride." 

XI. 

So  flow'd  the  unpitying  virgin's  thought, 

When  pierced  the  laurel  shade 
A  voice,  that  struck  with  dread  and  joy 

The  bosom  of  the  maid. 
Unseen  the  man,  but  known  how  well ! 

And  while  he  breathed  a  song, 
His  harp-string  help'd  with  sweeter  grief 

His  overburden'd  tongue. 

XII. 

"  Once  more,  beloved  maid  !  I  strive 

To  touch  thy  frozen  ear, 
And  wake  the  hopes  so  oftcn'd  chill'd 

Upon  the  lap  of  fear. 
Once  more,  alas !  I  seek  to  stir 

A  heart  of  human  mould 
With  throbs  of  nature's  pulse,  that  has 

Sweet  throbbings  manifold. 

XIII. 

"  And  oh  !  bethink  thee,  icy  breast ! 

How  vain  the  thought  of  pride 
Which  bids  thee  from  my  pleading  turn 

In  sullenness  aside ; 
How  weak  and  cheap  a  thing  it  is, 

But  oh  !  how  rich  in  good 
The  joy  of  hearts,  when  each  to  each 

Reveals  its  fondest  mood. 

XIV. 

"  E'en  hadst  thou  given  some  rival's  head 

The  flowery  wreath  of  love, 
Thy  scorn  of  me  men  would  not  hate, 

Nor  would  the  gods  reprove. 
In  words  of  bitter  wrathfulncss 

My  grief  might  urge  its  way, 
But  every  curse  invoked  on  thee 

Would  make  my  soul  its  prey. 


JOHN    STERLING. 


373 


"  Oh  !  give  me  but  one  whisper'd  word, 

Or  gently  wave  thy  hand  : 
Bestow  but  this  on  him  whose  life 

Thy  very  looks  command. 
The  light  of  youth  that  gilds  thee  now 

Will  not  be  always  thine, 
But  thou  may'st  bid  in  deathless  song 

Thy  beauty's  radiance  shine. 

XVI. 

"  Thou  speak'st  no  mild  relenting  word  ! 

So  part  we,  I  and  thou, 
To  whom  so  oft  in  misery 

Has  bent  my  laurell'd  brow. 
The  gods  that  favour  song  and  love 

Will  not  be  mock'd  in  vain, 
And  higher  they,  proud  Rock  !  than  thou  ! 

To  them  I  lift  my  strain." 

XVII. 

The  minstrel  turn'd  his  steps  away, 

And  moved  with  hurrying  feet, 
Till  past  the  slumberous  gloom  that  fill'd 

The  lonely  village  street ; 
And  through  the  vale  beyond  he  fled, 

And  near  the  rocky  shore, 
Arid  climb'd  the  winding  wooded  path 

That  up  the  mountain  bore. 

XVIII. 

The  silent  stars  were  gazing  all, 

The  moon  was  up  the  sky, 
And  from  below  the  tranquil  sea 

Sent  measured  sounds  on  high ; 
It  broke  beneath  a  steep  ascent, 

Where  Aphrodite's  fane 
Appeaf'd  a  home  of  steadfast  calm 

For  wanderers  o'er  the  main. 


And  thither  bent  the  bard  his  course, 

Until  the  rugged  way 
Subdued  his  desperate  recklessness 

To  an  abhorr'd  delay  ; 
And,  pausing  mid  his  haste,  the  thought 

Of  her  he  left  behind 
Brought  tears  into  his  burning  eyes, 

And  check'd  his  fiercer  mind. 

xx. 
Yet  soon  he  reach'd  the  terraced  height, 

The  spot  the  goddess  chose, 
W7here  channell'd  pillars  round  and  strong 

At  equal  spaces  rose  ; 
Above  were  graven  tablets  fair, 

With  gaps  of  dark  between, 
And  o'er  the  deep  receding  porch 

Celestial  forms  were  seen. 

XXI. 

And  soon  he  gain'd  the  marble  steps, 

Before  the  abode  divine, 
And  soon  he  oped  the  brazen  doors, 

And  sank  within  the  shrine; 
'T  was  dusk,  and  chill,  and  noiseless  all, 

And  scarce  amid  the  shade 
He  saw  the  form  of  her  whose  might 

Can  give  the  hopeless  aid. 


XXII. 

"  And  why,"  he  cried,  «  O  Goddess  dread  ! 

Must  worshippers  of  thee, 
Mid  all  on  earth  the  most  despised, 

Most  miserable  be  1 
Oh !  hast  thou  not  the  strength  to  save, 

Or  art  thou  then  indeed 
Too  cold  and  too  averse  a  power 

To  succour  mortal  need  ] 

XXIII. 

«  And  is  it  false  what  oft  was  said 

In  days  of  old  renown, 
What  hymn  and  lay  so  loud  proclaim 

In  camp,  and  field,  and  town, 
That  thou,  a  bounteous  arbitress, 

Wilt  hear  when  mourners  call, 
Delightest  most  in  man's  delight, 

And  sendest  bliss  to  all  1 

XXIV. 

"  By  thee,  as  tale  and  history  tell, 

And  sculptured  marble  gray, 
And  oracle  and  festal  rite, 

Surviving  men's  decay ; 
By  thee  all  things  are  beautiful, 

And  peaceable,  and  strong, 
And  joy  from  every  throe  is  born, 

And  mercy  conquers  wrong. 

XXV. 

"  Thy  birth,  O  Goddess  kind  and  smooth, 

Was  from  the  sunny  sea, 
The  crystal  blue  and  milky  foam 

In  brightness  cradled  thee  ; 
From  thee  all  fairest  things  have  light, 

Wrhich  they  to  men  impart ; 
Then  whence  arise  the  pangs  and  storms 

That  rend  the  lover's  heart?" 


'T  was  thus  the  sorrowing  bard  address'd 

That  presence  blind  and  dim, 
Startling  the  visionary  space, 

That  had  no  help  for  him  ; 
But  then  he  raised  in  haste  his  eyes, 

For  lo  !   a  sudden  ray 
Around  the  goddess  cast  a  light, 

Her  own  peculiar  day. 

XXVII. 

A  living  form  behold  she  stood, 

Of  more  than  sculptured  grace  ! 
The  high  immortal  queen  from  heaven, 

The  calm  Olympian  face  ! 
Eyes  pure  from  human  tear  or  smile, 

Yet  ruling  all  on  earth, 
And  limbs  whose  garb  of  golden  air 

Was  dawn's  primeval  birth  ! 

xxvni. 

With  tones  like  music  of  a  lyre, 

Continuous,  piercing,  low, 
The  sovran  lips  began  to  speak, 

Spoke  on  in  liquid  flow  ; 
It  seem'd  the  distant  ocean's  voice, 

Brought  near  and  shaped  to  speech, 
But  breathing  with  a  sense  beyond 

What  words  of  man  may  reach. 
21 


374 


JOHN    STERLING. 


XXIX. 

"  Weak  child  !     Not  I  the  puny  power 

Thy  wish  would  have  me  be, 
A  rose-leaf  floating  with  the  wind 

Upon  a  summer  sea. 
If  such  thou  need'st,  go  range  the  fields, 

And  hunt  the  gilded  fly, 
And  when  it  mounts  above  thy  head, 

Then  lay  thee  down  and  die. 

XXX. 

The  spells  which  rule  in  earth  and  stars 

Each  mightiest  thought  that  lives, 
Are  stronger  than  the  kiss  a  child 

In  sudden  fancy  gives. 
They  cannot  change,  or  fail,  or  fade, 

A"or  deign  o'er  aught  to  sway 
Too  weak  to  suffer  and  to  strive, 

And  tired  while  still  'tis  day. 

XXXI. 

"  And  thou  with  better  wisdom  learn 

The  ancient  lore  to  scan, 
Which  tells  that  first  in  ocean's  breast 

My  rule  o'er  all  began  ; 
And  know  that  not  in  breathless  noon 

Upon  the  glassy  main 
The  power  was  born  that  taught  the  world 

To  hail  her  endless  reign. 

XXXII. 

"  The  winds  were  loud,  the  waves  were  high, 

In  drear  eclipse  the  sun 
Was  crouch'd  within  the  caves  of  heaven, 

And  light  had  scarce  begun. 
The  earth's  green  front  lay  drown'd  below 

And  Death  and  Chaos  fought 
O'er  all  the  tumult  vast  of  things 

Not  yet  to  severance  brought. 

XXXIII. 

"  'Twas  then  that  spoke  the  fateful  voice, 

And  mid  the  huge  uproar, 
Above  the  dark  I  sprang  to  life, 

A  good  unhoped  before. 
My  tresses  waved  along  the  sky, 

And  stars  leap'd  out  around, 
And  earth  beneath  my  feet  arose, 

And  hid  the  pale  profound. 

XXXIY. 

"  A  lamp  amid  the  night,  a  feast 

That  ends  the  strife  of  war  ; 
To  wearied  mariners  a  port, 

To  fainting  limbs  a  car ; 
To  exiled  men  the  friendly  roof, 

To  mourning  hearts  the  lay  ; 
To  him  who  long  has  roam'd  by  night 

The  sudden  dawn  of  day  ; 

XXXV. 

"  A 11  these  are  mine,  and  mine  the  bliss 

That  visits  breasts  in  wo, 
And  fills  with  wine  the  cup  that  once 

With  tears  was  made  to  flow. 
Nor  question  thou  the  help  that  comes 

From  Aphrodite's  hand  ; 
For  madness  dogs  the  bard  who  doubts 

Whate'er  the  gods  command." 


XXXTI. 

With  lulFd  and  peaceful  sense  the  youth 

Upon  the  marble  Boor 
Reclined  his  head,  nor  wist  he  how 

His  bosom's  pangs  were  o'er. 
Before  the  statue's  graven  base 

He  sank  in  happy  rest, 
But  visions  plain  as  noonday  truth 

Came  swiftly  o'er  his  breast. 

XXXVII. 

For  in  the  unmoving  body's  ti-ance, 

When  ear  and  eye  are  still, 
The  mind  prophetic  wakes  and  yearns, 

And  moulds  the  unconscious  will ; 
The  silent  sleeper's  heart  is  near 

The  steadfast  heart  of  all, 
And  sights  to  outward  view  denied 

Obey  the  spirit's  call. 

XXXVIII. 

The  radiant  goddess  changed  her  look 

Of  clear  and  mild  control : 
A  gloomy  fury  seem'd  she  now, 

A  tyrant  o'er  the  soul. 
With  furrow'd  face  and  deadly  glance 

Like  storm  she  swept  away, 
And  still  the  minstrel  saw  the  fiend 

Pursuing  swift  her  prey. 

XXXIX. 

And  now  she  reach'd  the  chamber  fair, 

The  ancient  home's  recess, 
Where  wearied  Myrto  lay  asleep 

In  dreamy  restlessness. 
The  lover  saw  the  grisly  sprite 

Beside  her  couch  appear, 
And  but  for  power  that  held  him  fast 

He  would  have  shriek'd  in  fear. 

xt. 

The  thoughts  within  the  virgin  heart 

Took  shapes  that  he  could  spell, 
Like  pictures  visible  and  clear, 

The  maiden's  tale  they  tell ; 
And  doubt  is  there,  and  pride,  and  love 

In  fluctuating  stir, 
And  many  a  memory  of  him, 

And  sonffs  he  framed  for  her. 


The  fair  brow  quivers  fast  and  oft, 

The  smooth  lips  work  and  wane, 
And  hand,  and  cheek,  and  bosom  thrill, 

And  writhe  as  if  in  pain ; 
And  then  in  wan  dismay  she  wakes, 

And  sees  beside  her  bed 
The  spectral  ghastliness  whose  gaze 

Fills  all  the  air  with  dread. 

XI.1I. 

She  starts,  and  screams — Oh!  spare  me,  spare! 

I  know  thy  torments  well, 
To  punish  fierce  insatiate  pride 

Thou  comest  to  me  from  hell. 
Forgive,  beloved  !  return  from  death  ! 

And  soon  thou  shall  avow, 
That  she  whose  scorn  was  once  so  cold 

Can  love  no  less  than  thou. 


JOHN    STERLING. 


375 


XLIII. 

«  But,  oh  !   dark  demon,  if  in  vain 

I  pray  the  gods  for  aid, 
Swift  let  me  join  my  vanish'  d  love 

In  thy  domain  of  shade  ; 
And  take  these  horrid  eyes  away, 

So  pitiless  and  hard, 
I  cannot  bear  the  looks  that  oft 

I  bent  upon  the  bard." 


She  turn'd  and  hid  her  tearful  face, 

And  sighs  convulsive  rose, 
And  broke  the  charm  that  chain'd  the  youth 

In  motionless  repose.  * 

But  still  with  waking  ear  he  caught 

The  groans  of  Myrto's  pain, 
For  she  herself  before  him  lay 

Within  the  sacred  fane. 

XLV. 
He  clasp'd  her  quick,  and  held  her  close 

Upon  his  bounding  breast, 
With  tears  and  kisses  warm'd  her  cheek, 

And  knew  that  he  was  blest. 
And  now  the  maid  forgiveness  ask'd, 

Now  upward  look'd  and  smiled, 
And,  firmlier  knit  by  sorrow  past, 

Their  hearts  were  reconciled. 

xtvi. 

The  golden  sun  sublime  arose, 
.    And  fill'd  the  shrine  with  day, 
The  earth  in  gladness  open'd  wide, 

And  green  the  valley  lay  ; 
Serenely  brigbt  the  goddess  glow'd 

Amid  the  purpled  air, 
And  look'd  with  gracious  eyes  benign 

On  those  adoring  there. 


HYMNS  OF  A  HERMIT. 

HYMN  I. 

SWEET  morn  !  from  countless  cups  of  gold 
Thou  liftest  reverently  on  high 

More  incense  fine  than  earth  can  hold, 
To  fill  the  sky. 

One  interfusion  wide  of  love 

Thine  airs  and  odours  moist  ascend, 

And,  mid  the  azure  depths  above, 
With  light  they  blend. 

The  lark,  by  his  own  carol  blest, 

From  thy  green  harbours  eager  springs ; 

And  his  large  heart  in  little  breast 
Exulting  sings. 

On  lands  and  seas,  on  fields  and  woods, 
And  cottage  roofs,  and  ancient  spires, 

O  morn  !  thy  gaze  creative  broods, 
While  night  retires. 

Aloft  the  mountain  ridges  beam 
Above  their  quiet  streps  of  gray; 

The  eastern  clouds  with  glory  stream, 
And  vital  day. 


By  valleys  dank,  and  river's  brim, 

Through  corn-clad  fields  and  wizard  groves, 
O'er  dazzling  tracks  and  hollows  dim, 

One  spirit  roves. 

The  broad-helm'd  oak-tree's  endless  growth, 
The  mossy  stone  that  crowns  the  hill, 

The  violet's  breast,  to  gazers  loath, 
In  sunshine  thrill. 

A  joy  from  hidden  paradise 

Is  rippling  down  the  shiny  brooks, 

With  beauty  like  the  gleams  of  eyes 
In  tenderest  looks. 

Where'er  the  vision's  boundaries  glance, 
Existence  swells  with  teeming  power, 

.And  all  illumined  earth's  expanse 
Inhales  the  hour. 

Not  sands,  and  rocks,  and  seas  immense, 
And  vapours  thin,  and  halls  of  air  ; 

Not  these  alone,  with  kindred  glance, 
The  splendour  share. 

The  fly  his  jocund  round  inweaves. 
With  choral  strain  the  birds  salute 

The  voiceful  flocks,  and  nothing  grieves, 
And  naught  is  mute. 

In  man,  O  morn !  a  loftier  good, 

With  conscious  blessing,  fills  the  soul, 

A  life  by  reason  understood, 
Which  metes  the  whole. 

With  healthful  pulse,  and  tranquil  fire, 
Which  plays  at  ease  in  every  limb, 

His  thoughts  uncheck'd  to  heaven  aspire, 
Reveal'd  in  him. 

To  thousands  tasks  of  fruitful  hope 
With  skill  against  his  toil  he  bends, 

And  finds  his  work's  determined  scope 
Where'er  he  wends. 

From  earth,  and  earthly  toil  and  strife, 
^*£o  deathless  aims  his  love  may  rise, 
Each  dawn  may  wake  to  better  life, 
With  purer  eyes. 

Such  grace  from  thee,  O  God  !  be  ours, 
Renew'd  with  every  morning's  ray, 

And  freshening  still,  with  added  flowers, 
Each  future  day. 

To  man  is  given  one  primal  star ; 

One  day-spring's  beam  has  dawn'd  below. 
From  thine  our  inmost  glories  are, 

With  thine  we  glow. 

Like  earth,  awake,  and  warm,  and  bright 
With  joy  the  spirit  moves  and  burns  ; 

So  up  to  thee,  O  Fount  of  Light ! 
Our  light  returns. 

HYMN  II. 
O  THOU  who  strength  and  wisdom  sheddest 

O'er  all  thy  countless  works  below, 
And  harmony  and  beauty  spreadest 

On  lands  unmoved,  arid  seas  that  flow  ! 


376 


JOHN    STERLING. 


From  grains  and  motes  to  spheres  uncounted, 
From  deep  beneath  to  suns  above, 

My  gaze  with  awe  and  joy  has  mounted, 
And  found  in  all  thy  ordering  love. 

The  fly  around  me  smoothly  flitting, 

The  lark  that  hymns  the  morning  star, 
The  swan  on  crystal  water  sitting, 

The  eagle  hung  in  skies  afar — 
To  all  their  cleaving  wings  thou  givest, 

Like  those  that  bear  the  seraph's  flight ; 
In  all,  O  perfect  Will !  thou  livest, 

For  all  hast  oped  thy  world  of  light 

The  grass  that  springs  beside  the  fountain, 

The  silver  waves  that  sparkle  there, 
The  trees  that  robe  the  shadowing  mountain, 

And,  high  o'er  all,  the  limpid  air — 
Amid  the  vale  each  lowly  dwelling, 

Whose  hearths  with  sweet  religion  shine, 
In  measure  all  things  round  are  swelling 

With  tranquil  being's  force  divine. 

And  deep  and  vast  beyond  our  wonder, 

The  links  of  power  that  bind  the  whole, 
While  day,  and  dusk,  and  breeze,  and  thunder, 

And  life  and  death  unceasing  roll. 
While  all  is  wheel'd  in  endless  motion, 

Thou  changest  not,  upholding  all ; 
And,  lifting  man  in  pure  devotion, 

On  Thee  thou  teachest  him  to  call. 

To  him,  thy  child,  thyself  revealing, 

He  sees  what  all  is  meant  to  be ; 
From  him  thy  secret  not  concealing, 

Thou  bidd'st  his  will  aspire  to  Thee. 
And  so  we  own  in  thy  creation 

An  image  painting  all  thou  art ; 
And,  crowning  all  the  revelation, 

Thy  loftiest  work,  a  human  heart. 

The  will,  the  love,  the  sunlike  reason, 

Which  thou  hast  made  the  strength  of  man, 
May  ebb  and  flow  through  day  and  season, "** 

And  oft  may  mar  their  seeming  plan ; 
But  Thou  art  here  to  nerve  and  fashion 

With  better  hopes  our  world  of  care, 
To  calm  each  base  and  lawless  passion, 

And  so  the  heavenly  life  repair. 

In  all  the  track  of  earth-born  ages, 

Each  day  displays  thy  guidance  clear, 
And,  best  divined  by  holiest  sages, 

Makes  every  child  in  part  a  seer. 
Thy  laws  are  bright  with  purest  glory, 

To  us  thou  givest  congenial  eyes, 
And  so,  in  earth's  unfolding  story, 

We  read  thy  truth  that  fills  the  skies. 

But  mid  thy  countless  forms  of  being 

One  shines  supreme  o'er  all  beside, 
And  man,  in  all  thy  wisdom  seeing, 

In  Him  reveres  a  sinless  gui<K 
In  Him  alone,  no  longer  shroin'od 

By  mist  that  dims  all  meaner  things, 
Thou  dwell'st,  O  God  !  unvcil'd,  unclouded, 

And  fearless  peace  thy  presence  brings. 


Then  teach  my  heart,  celestial  Brightness ! 

To  know  that  Thou  art  hid  no  more, 
To  sun  my  spirit's  dear-bought  whiteness 

Beneath  thy  rays,  and  upward  soar. 
In  all  that  is,  a  law  unchanging 

Of  Truth  and  Love  may  I  behold, 
And  own,  mid  thought's  unbounded  ranging, 

The  timeless  One  proclaim'd  of  old ! 

HYMN  III. 
TIME  more  than  earthly  o'er  this  hour  prevails, 

W7hile  thus  I  stand  beside  the  newly  dead ; 
My  heart  is  raised  in  awe,  in  terror  quails 

Before  these.relics,  whence  the  life  is  fled. 

That  face,  so  well  beloved,  is  senseless  now, 
And  lies  a  shrunken  mask  of  common  clay; 

No  more  shall  thought  inspire  the  pulseless  brow, 
Or  laughter  round  the  mouth  keep  holiday. 

In  vain  affection  yearns  to  own  as  man 

This  clod  turn'd  over  by  the  plough  of  death  • 

The  sharpen'd  nose,  the  frozen  eyes  we  scan, 
And  wondering  think  the  heap  had  human  breath. 

An  hour  ago  its  lightest  looks  or  throbs 
Impell'd  in  me  the  bosom's  ample  tide ; 

Its  farewell  words  awaken'd  sighs  and  sobs, 
To  me  more  vivid  seem'd  than  all  beside. 

Now  not  a  worm  is  crawling  o'er  the  earth, 
But  shows  than  this  an  impulse  more  divine; 

And,  wandering  lost  in  stunn'd  reflection's  dearth, 
I  only  feel  what  total  loss  is  mine. 

Cold  hand,  I  touch  thee !  Perish'd  friend !  I  know 
What  years  of  mutual  joy  are  gone  with  thee; 

And  yet  from  these  benumb'd  remains  there  flow 
Calm  thoughts  that  first  with  chasten'd  hopes 
agree. 

How  strange  is  death  to  life  !  and  yet  how  sure 
The  law  which  dooms  each  living  thing  to  die ! 

WThate'er  is  outward  cannot  long  endure, 
And  all  that  lasts  eludes  the  subtlest  eye. 

Because  the  eye  is  only  made  to  spell 

The  grosser  garb  and  failing  husk  of  things ; 

The  vital  strengths  and  streams  that  inlier  dwell, 
Our  faith  divines  amid  their  secret  springs. 

The  stars  will  sink  as  fade  the  lamps  of  earth, 
The  earth  be  lost  as  vapour  seen  no  more, 

And  all  around  that  seems  of  oldest  birth, 
Abides  one  destined  day — and  all  is  o'er. 

Himalah's  piles,  like  heaps  of  autumn  leaves, 
Will  one  day  spread  along  the  winds  of  space, 

And  each  Strong  stamp  of  man  the  world  receives 
Will  flit  like  steps  in  sand,  without  a  trace. 

Yet  something  still  will  somewhere  needs  abide 
Of  all  whose  being  e'er  has  fill'd  our  thought ; 

In  different  shapes  to  other  worlds  may  glide, 
But  still  must  live  as  more  than  empty  nought. 

The  trees  docay'd,  their  parent  soil  will  feed,  [first: 
Whence  trees  may  grow  more  fair  than  grew  the 

To  worlds  destroy'd,  so  worlds  mny  still  succeed, 
And  still  the  earliest  may  have  been  the  worst. 


JOHN    STERLING. 


377 


Thus,  never  desperate,  muse  believing  men  ; 

But  what,  O  Power  divine  !  shall  men  become  1 
This  pale  memorial  meets  my  gaze  again, 

And  grief  a  moment  bids  my  hopes  be  dumb. 

Not  thus,  O  God  !  desert  us !  Rather  I 

Should  sink  at  once  to  unremembering  clay, 

And  close  my  sight  on  thy  translucent  sky, 
Than  yield  my  soul  to  death  a  helpless  prey ; 

Oh  !  rather  bear  beyond  the  date  of  stars 

All  torments  heap'd  that  nerve  and  soul  can  feel, 

Than  but  one  hour  believe  destruction  mars 
Without  a  hope  the  life  our  breasts  reveal. 

Bold  is  the  life  and  deep  and  vast  in  man, 

A  flood  of  being  pour'd  uncheck'd  from  Thee ; 

To  Thee  return'd  by  thine  eternal  plan, 

When  tried  and  train'd  thy  will  unveil' d  to  see. 

The  spirit,  leaves  the  body's  wondrous  frame, 
That  frame  itself  a  world  of  strength  and  skill ; 

The  nobler  inmate  new  abodes  will  claim, 
In  every  change  to  Thee  aspiring  still. 

Although  from  darkness  born,  to  darkness  flod, 
We  know  that  light  beyond  surrounds  the  whole ; 

The  man  survives,  though  the  weird-corpse  be  dead, 
And  He  who  dooms  the  flesh,  redeems  the  soul. 

HYMN   IV. 

THE  stream  of  life  from  fountains  flows, 
Conceal'd  by  sacred  woods  and  caves  : 
From  crag  to  dell  uncheck'd  it  goes, 
And,  hurrying  fast  from  where  it  rose, 
In  foam  and  flash  exulting  raves. 

But  straight  below  the  torrent's  leap, 

Serenely  bright  its  effluence  lies, 
And  waves  that  thunder'd  down  the  steep 
Are  hush'd  in  quiet,  mute  and  deep, 

Reflecting  rock,  and  trees,  and  skies. 

And  mid  the  pool,  disturb'd  yet  clear, 
The  noisy  gush  that  feeds  it  still 

Is  seen  again  descending  sheer, 

A  cataract  within  the  mere, 
As  bright  as  down  the  hill. 

A  living  picture,  smooth  and  true, 
Of  headlong  fight  and  restless  power, 

Whose  burst  for  ever  feeds  anew 

The  lake  of  fresh  and  silver  dew 

That  paints  and  drinks  the  stormy  shower. 

So  Thought,  with  crystal  mirror,  shows 
Our  human  joy,  and  strife,  and  pain  ; 
And  ghostly  dreams,  and  passion's  woes, 
The  tide  of  failures,  hates,  and  foes, 
Are  softly  figured  there  again. 

Do  Thou,  who  pourest  forth  our  days, 

With  all  their  floods  of  life  divine, 
Bestow  thy  Spirit's  peaceful  gaze, 
To  still  the  surge  those  tumults  raise, 
And  make  thy  calm  of  being  mine ! 

HYMN    V. 

ETERNAL  Mind  !   Creation's  Light  and  Lord! 

Thou  tniinrsl  num  to  love  thy  perfect  will, 
By  love  to  know  thy  truth's  obscurest  word, 

And  so  his  years  with  hallovv'd  life  to  fill ; 

48 


To  own  in  all  things  round  thy  law's  accord, 

Which  bids  all  hope  be  strong  to  vanquish  ill ; 
Illumined  thus  by  thy  diffusive  ray, 
The  darken'd  world  and  soul  are  bright  with  day. 

In  storm,  and  flood,  and  all  decays  of  time, 
In  hunger,  plagues,  and  man-devouring  war; 

In  all  the  boundless  tracts  of  inward  crime — 
In  selfish  hates,  and  lusts  that  deepliest  mar, 

In  lazy  dreams  that  clog  each  task  sublime, 
In  loveless  doubts  of  truth's  unsetting  star ; 

In  all — thy  Spirit  will  not  cease  to  brood 

With  vital  strength,  unfolding  all  to  good. 

The  headlong  cataract  and  tempest's  roar, 

The  rage  of  seas,  and  earthquake's  hoarse  dismay, 

The  crush  of  empire,  sapp'd  by  tears  and  gore, 
A  nd  shrieks  of  hearts  their  own  corruption's  prey ; 

All  sounds  of  death  enforce  thy  righteous  lore, 
In  smoothest  flow  thy  being's  truth  obey, 

And,  heard  in  ears  from  passion's  witchery  free, 

One  endless  music  make — a  hymn  to  Thee  ! 

But  most,  O  God  !  the  inward  eyes  of  thought 
Discern  thy  laws  in  all  that  works  within  ; 

The  conscious  will,  by  hard  experience  taught, 
Divines  thy  mercy  shown  by  hate  of  sin  : 

And  hearts  whose  peace  by  shame  and  grief  was 

bought, 
Thy  blessings  praise,  that  first  in  wo  begin, 

For  still  on  earthly  pain's  tormented  ground 

Thy  love's  immortal  flowers  and  fruits  abound. 

Fair  sight  it  is,  and  medicinal  for  man, 

To  see  thy  guidance  lead  the  human  breast ; 

In  life's  unopen'd  germs  behold  thy  plan, 
Till  mid  the  ripen'd  soul  it  stands  confest; 

From  impulse  too  minute  for  us  to  scan, 

Awakening  sense  with  love  and  purpose  blest ; 

And  through  confusion,  error,  trial,  grief, 

Maturing  reason,  conscience,  calm  belief. 

This  to  have  known,  my  soul,  be  thankful  thou ! — 
This  clear,  ideal  form  of  endless  good, 

Which  casts  around  the  adoring  learner's  brow 
The  ray  that  marks  man's  holiest  brotherhood  ; 

Thus  e'en  from  guilt's  deep  curse  and  slavish  vow, 
And  dreams  whereby  the  light  was  long  withstood, 

Thee,  Lord  !  whose  mind  is  rule  supreme  to  all, 

Unveil'd  we  see,  and  hail  thy  wisdom's  call. 

HYMN    VI. 
CAN  man,  O  God  !  the  tale  of  man  repeat, 

Nor  feel  his  bosom  heave  with  livelier  bound  ? 
Through  all  we  are  the  swelling  pulse  must  beat 

At  thought  of  all  we  are,  of  all  things  round: 
Our  inmost  selves  the  straining  vision  meet, 

And  memory  wakes  from  slumber's  cave  pro- 
And,  like  a  rock  upon  a  sunny  plain,  [found: 
The  past  amid  thy  light  is  seen  again. 

Ah  !  little  sphere  of  rosy  childhood's  hour, 
Itself  so  weak,  and  yet  foreshowing  all ! 

Unopen'd  world  of  self-evolving  power, 
That  now  but  hears  the  instant's  tiny  call ! 

Within  its  dewdrop  life,  its  folded  flower, 

Distress  and  strife  the  thoughtless  heart  enthrall ; 

And  stirrings  big  with  man's  unmeasured  hope 

Have  scarcely  strength  against  one  pang  to  cope. 
2i2 


378 


JOHN    STERLING. 


Bewildering,  cloudy  dawn  !  then  pass  from  view 
The  first  faint  lines  of  mortal  being's  course ; 

Then  wakes  the  will,  and  fiercely  grasps  a  clue, 
And  wondering  feels  it  snapped  by  headlong  force, 

And  sad  and  weeping  grows  a  child  anew, 

Till  joy  comes  back  from  life's  unfailing  source — 

New  aims,  new  thoughts,  new  pa  sions  take  their 
turn, 

And  still  the  extinguish'd  flame  again  will  burn. 

What  gropings  blind  to  leave  the  common  way  ! 

What  yearnings  vain  that  find  no  end  reveal'd  ! 
What  hopeless  war,  and  feeling's  idle  play  ! 
What  wounds  that  pierce  through  pride's  phan- 
tasmal play  1 
A  thousand  objects  woo'd  and  thrown  away  ! 

And  idols  dear  that  no  response  will  yield  ! 
And  so  within  one  bosom's  living  cell 
A  fiendish  foe  and  helpless  victim  dwell. 

Oh, gorgeous  dreams.and  wing-borne  flightof  youth! 

That  thinks  by  scorning  earth  to  win  the  skies ; 
Forebodings  dim  of  visionary  truth, 

That  like  a  beast  pursued  before  us  flies ; 
Insane  delight  in  monstrous  forms  uncouth,  [rise ; 

That  thence  perchance  some  prophet  ghost  may 
Blind  love  of  light,  and  craving  hate  of  rest! — 
How  far  our  strangest  world  is  in  the  breast ! 

Abounding  pictures,  bright  with  morn  and  joy, 
Of  all  the  endless  beings  round  us  known, 

Bewilder,  vex,  intoxicate,  and  cloy, — 

A  land  of  bliss  how  near,  yet  not  our  own ! 

All  things  so  fair,  each  sense  they  needs  employ, 
Yet  mid  them  all  the  spirit  wastes  alone  ; 

So  many,  lovely,  large,  and  sweet  they  seem. 

As  if  to  prove  the  whole  is  only  dream.    - 

Fair  visions  all !  and,  mid  the  train  of  things, 
How  strange  the  sway  the  fairest  shapes  have  won! 

From  them  distraction,  folly,  rapture  springs, 
And  life's  true  rapture  seems  but  now  begun, 

For  mad  we  seek  the  joy  that  passion  brings 
To  hearts  by  inmost,  treacheries  all  undone, 

Though  love's  concealing  veil  is  dark  and  stern, 

Nor  e'er  did  eyes  profane  its  mystery  learn. 

So  forward  roll  the  years  with  wo  and  bliss, 
Mid  act,  and  deed,  and  thought,  and  lone  despair ; 

And  'twixt  the  arduous  That  and  easy  This, 
We  fain  the  trial  more  than  man  can  bear. 

Still  Conscience  stabs  and  bleeds ;  Temptation's  kiss 
Still  sucks  our  purest  life,  and  taints  the  air ; 

His  feet  with  blood,  his  own  and  others',  red, 

Ambition  climbs  the  unstable  mountain-head. 

But  sickening  hours  and  weariness  of  breath,' 
And  eyes  that  cannot  brook  to  see  the  day, 

And  dreams  that  shuddering  hail  the  name  of  death, 
And  fancies  thin  subdued  by  dull  decay, — 

All  these,  O  God  !  thy  servant  Conscience  saith, 
Are  surely  sent  by  Thee — thy  word  obey ; 

The  world  of  man  so  bright,  and  soul  so  strong, 

To  man  are  shown  defaced  by  human  wrong. 

And  thus,  by  inward  act  and  outward  led, 

We  know  the  things  we  are  if  loosed  from  thee  ; 

How  blind  as  rocks,  and  weak  as  branches  dead, 
And  vain  and  fierce,  to  show  us  nobly  free, 


To  leave  thy  paths  in  desert  wilds  we  fled, 

And  hoped  no  longer  thine — our  own  to  be ; 
So  sinking  down  from  fancied  all  to  naught, 
One  grain  of  dust  was  left  by  misery  taught. 

That  speck,  O  Father !  still  to  thee  was  dear — 
A  living  relic  capable  of  good ;  [fear, 

And  bruised  and  crush'd  by  wo,  and  shame,  and 
Arose  again  from  earth,  and  upright  stood. 

Thy  spirit  still  was  there,  not  now  severe, 
And  fed  the  yearning  heart  with  loving  food, 

Till  brave  and  clear,  discerning  all  the  past, 

It  knew  that  peace  and  hope  were  gain'd  at  last. 

Now  all  confusion  spent,  and  battles  o'er, 
Are  seen  as  leading  on  to  endless  rest, 

The  world  obscure  and  distant  now  no  more, 
With  sights  of  truthful  gladness  fills  the  breast ; 

And  love,  so  false  and  foul  a  name  before, 

With  countless  joys  the  wounded  heart  has  blest: 

And  thus,  O  God !  thy  child  serene  and  bold 

Goes  forth  to  toils  heroic  manifold  ! 


THE  DEAREST. 

OH  !  that  from  far-away  mountains 

Over  the  restless  waves, 
Where  bubble-enchanted  fountains, 

Rising  from  jewell'd  caves, 
I  could  call  a  fairy  bird, 
Who,  whene'er  thy  voice  was  heard, 

Should  come  to  thee,  dearest ! 

He  should  have  violet  pinions, 

And  a  beak  of  silver  white, 
And  should  bring  from  the  sun's  dominions 

Eyes  that  would  give  thee  light. 
Thou  should'st  see  that  he  was  born 
In  a  land  of  gold  and  morn, 

To  be  thy  servant,  dearest ! 

Oft  should  he  drop  on  thy  tresses 

A  pearl,  or  diamond  stone, 
And  would  yield  to  thy  light  caresses 

Blossoms  in  Eden  grown. 
Round  thy  path  his  wings  would  shower 
Now  a  gem,  and  now  a  flower, 

And  dewy  odours,  dearest ! 

He  should  fetch  from  his  eastern  island 

The  songs  that  the  Peris  sing, 
And  when  evening  is  clear  and  silent, 

Spells  to  thy  ear  would  bring, 
And  with  his  mysterious  strain 
Would  entrance  thy  weary  brain, 

Love's  own  music,  dearest ! 

No  Phoenix,  alas  !  will  hover, 

Sent  from  the  morning  star; 
And  thou  must  take  of  thy  lover 

A  gift  not  brought  so  far  : 
Wanting  bird,  and  gem,  and  song, 
Ah  !   receive  and  treasure  long 

A  heart  that  loves  thee,  dearest ! 


JOHN    STERLING. 


379 


JOAN  D'ARC. 


a  lucid  star  sublime 
In  the  vault  of  earthly  time ; 
Many  a  deed,  and  name,  and  face, 
Is  a  lamp  of  heavenly  grace, 
And,  to  us  that  walk  below, 
Cheers  with  hope  the  vale  of  wo. 
Lo  !  the  great  aerial  host, 
Whom  our  bodily  eyes  have  lost, 
To  the  spirit  reappear 
With  their  glory  shining  here  ; 
Bearded  saints  from  holy  cell ; 
Warriors  who  for  duty  fell ; 
Thoughtful  devotees,  in  youth 
Spell-bound  by  a  glance  of  Truth. 
And  to  whom  all  else  has  been 
But  a  thin  and  changeful  scene ; 
All  to  whom  the  many  shows 
That  the  years  of  earth  disclose, 
Are  but  gleams,  for  moments  given, 
Of  an  ever-present  heaven. 

IT. 

High  amid  the  dead  who  give 
Better  life  to  those  that  live, 
See  where  shines  the  peasant  Maid, 
In  her  hallow'd  mail  array'd, 
Whom  the  lord  of  peace  and  war 
Sent  as  on  a  flaming  car, 
From  her  father's  fold  afar. 
Her's  the  calm  supernal  faith, 
Braving  ghastliest  looks  of  death  ; 
For,  O  loveliest  woodland  flower 
Ever  bruised  in  stormiest  hour  ! 
Guardian  saints  have  nerved  thy  soul 
Battling  nations  to  control ; 
And  the  vision-gifted  eye, 
That,  communing  with  the  sky, 
Sank  when  human  steps  were  nigh, 
Now,  in  face  of  fiend  and  man, 
Must  the  camp  and  city  scan, 
And  outspeed  the  rushing  van. 

IIT. 

Pause  not,  gentle  maiden,  now  ! 
Awful  hands  have  mark'd  thy  brow ; 
And,  in  lonely  hours  of  prayer, 
Mid  the  leafy  forest  air, 
Boundless  powers,  eternal  eyes, 
Looks  that  made  old  prophets  wise, 
Have  inspired  thy  solitude 
With  a  rapt,  heroic  mood, 
And  have  taught  thy  humble  weakness 
All  the  strength  that  dwells  in  meekness; 
And  with  how  devouring  sway, 
Right,  oppress'd  by  long  delay, 
Bursts  out  in  a  judgment-day. 
Thus  thy  heart  is  high  and  strong, 
Swelling  like  cherubic  song, 
For  thou  art  so  low  and  small, 
It  must  be  the  Lord  of  All 
Who  can  thus  a  world  appal. 
Race  and  country,  daily  speech, 
That  makes  each  man  dear  to  each, 


Friends  and  home,  and  love  of  mother, 

Grandsire's  grave,  and  slaughter'd  brother 

Fields  familiar,  native  sky, 

Voices  these  that  on  thee  cry 

Winds  pursue  with  vocal  might, 

Stars  will  not  be  dumb  by  night, 

And  the  dry  leaf  on  the  ground 

Has  a  tongue  of  pealing  sound, 

Loud  from  God  commanding  thee, 

Go,  and  set  thy  nation  free ! 

IT. 

Battle's  blast  is  fiercely  blowing, 
Clarions  sounding,  coursers  bounding, 
Pennons  o'er  the  tumult  flowing, 
Host  on  host  the  eye  astounding 
Wave  on  wave  that  sea  confounding, 
And  in  headlong  fury  going, 
Mounted  kingdoms  wildly  dashing, 
Lance  to  lance,  and  steed  to  steed ; 
Now  must  haughtiest  champions  bleed, 
And  a  myriad  swords  are  flashing, 
Loud  on  shield  and  helmet  clashing; 
Ne'er  had  ruin  nobler  spoil 
On  this  broad  and  bloody  soil. 
As  the  storms  a  forest  crushing, 
Oaks  of  thousand  winters  grind, 
So  the  iron  whirl  is  rushing, 
Shouts  before  and  groans  behind. 
Still  amid  the  dead  and  dying, 
All  in  shatter 'd  ridges  lying, 
Pride,  revenge,  and  youthful  daring, 
And  their  cause  and  country's  name, 
Drive  them  on  with  sweep  unsparing, — 
Naught  for  life,  and  all  for  fame  ! 
Still  above  the  surge  of  battle 
Breathes  the  trump  its  fatal  gale, 
And  the  hollow  tambours  rattle 
Chorus  to  the  deadly  tale. 
Still  is  Joan  the  first  in  glory, 
Still  she  sways  the  maddening  fight, 
Kindling  all  the  flames  of  story, 
With  an  unimagined  might. 
Squadrons  furious  close  around  her, 
Still  her  blade  is  waving  free ; 
Sword"  nor  lance  avails  to  wound  her 
Terror  of  a  host  is  she. 
Heavenly  guardian,  maiden  wonder  ! 
Long  shall  France  resound  the  day 
When  thou  earnest  clad  in  thunder, 
Blasting  thy  tremendous  way. 

v. 

Yet,  who  closer  mark'd  the  face 
That  o'erruled  the  battle  place, 
Much  had  marvell'd  to  discern 
Looks  more  calm  and  soft  than  stern. 
For  no  flush  of  hot  ambition 
Stain'd  her  soul's  unearthly  mission. 
Raging  hate,  and  stubborn  pride, 
Warlike  cunning,  life-long  tried, 
Low  before  that  presence  died, 
For  within  her  sainted  heart 
Naught  of  these  had  formed  a  part. 
God  had  will'd  the  land  to  free ; 
Handmaiden  of  God  was  she. 


380 


JOHN    STERLING. 


Ne'er  so  smooth  a  brow  before 
Battle's  darkening  ensign  wore; 
And  'twas  still  the  gentle  eye 
Wont  when  evening  veil'd  the  sky, 
In  the  whispering  shade  to  see 
Angels  haunt  the  lonely  tree. 

VI. 

Loud  o'er  Orleans'  rampart  swells 
Music  from  her  steeple  bell, 
Loud  to  France  the  triumph  tells ; 
And  the  vehement  trumpets  blending, 
With  the  shouts  to  heaven  ascending, 
Hail  the  maid  whom  seraphs  bless, 
Consecrated  Championess  ! 
Sound  from  heart  to  heart  that  tingles, 

Echoing  on  without  a  pause  ; 
While  her  name  like  sunshine  mingles 

With  each  breath  a  nation  draws. 
All  the  land,  with  joy  on  fire, 

Blazes  round  the  festal  march, 
Till  they  meet  the  priestly  choir 

Under  Rheims'  cathedral  arch. 
Ancient  towers,  and  cloisters  hoary, 

Gleam  and  thrill  above  the  king ; 
Beauteous  rite  and  blazon'd  story 

On  his  crown  their  lustre  fling, 
With  an  old  resurgent  glory, 

Laws  and  freedom  hallowing. 
Therefore,  baron,  count,  and  peer, 
Priest  and  dame  no  more  in  fear, 
All  assemble  wondering  here  ; 
And  a  sea  of  common  men, 
Feasting  all  with  greedy  ken, 
Now  behold,  in  pomp  appear, 
Smiling,  not  without  a  tear, 
Joan,  the  dearest  sight  to  see, 
First  of  all  the  chivalry, 
Bearing  low  her  barmer'd  spear. 

vir. 

Dizzy  with  their  full  delight, 
All  disperse  ere  comes  the  night. 
Charles  and  all  his  train  are  met, 

Revelling  in  royal  hall ; 
Shield  and  pennon  o'er  them  set, 

Many  a  doubtful  fight  recall ; 
And  the  throng'd  and  clanging  town 
For  the  rescued  land's  renown, 

Keeps  a  sudden  carnival. 
Ask  ye,  where  the  while  is  Joan  ? 
She  within  the  minster  lone, 
To  the  silent  altar  steals, 
And  before  it  trembling  kneels ; 
And  amid  the  shadows  dim, 
Faithfully  she  prays  to  Him 
Who  his  light  in  dark  reveals. 
Now  again  her  home  she  sees, 
Domremy  with  all  its  trees, 
Where  the  ancient  beech  is  growing, 
And  the  haunted  fount  is  flowing, 
And  the  Meuse  with  equal  sound 
Breathes  its  quiet  all  around. 
Won  again  by  weeping  prayer, 
Lo !  her  loved  protectors  there, 
Catherine  mild,  and  Margaret  fair. 


Over  them  a  light  is  streaming, 
On  their  gracious  foreheads  beaming, 
Effluence  from  an  orb  unseen, 
To  which  heaven  is  but  a  screen  ; 
All  our  human  sight  above, 
Not  beyond  our  human  love  : 
And  from  thence  she  hears  a  voice 
That  can  make  the  dead  rejoice ; 
— "  Give  not  way  to  pride  or  fear, 
For  the  end  of  all  is  near !" 

Till. 

End  with  many  tears  implored  ! 

'T  is  the  sound  of  home  restored ! 

And  as  mounts  the  angel  show, 

Gliding  with  them  she  would  go, 

But  again  to  stoop  below, 

And,  return'd  to  green  Lorraine, 

Be  a  shepherd  child  again. 

Now  the  crown  of  Charles  is  won, 

Now  the  work  of  God  is  done, 

Angel  wings,  away  !  away  ! 

Lift  her  home  by  close  of  day, 

And  upon  her  mother's  breast 

Give  her  weary  spirit  rest. 

Then,  with  vernal  thickets  nigh, 

And  the  waters  glistening  by, 

In  smooth  valleys  let  her  keep 

Undescried  her  quiet  sheep. 

This  the  promise  to  the  maid 

By  the  heavenly  voice  convey 'd : 

Oh  !  how  differing  far  the  doom  ; 

Oh  !  how  close  the  bloody  tomb  ; 

Thus  men  hear,  but  not  discern, 

What  Heaven  wills  that  they  should  learn ; 

And  the  time  and  deed  alone 

Make  the  eternal  meaning  known. 

IX. 

Wail,  ye  fields  and  woods  of  France  ! 
Rivers,  dim  your  sunny  glance  ! 
All  of  strong,  and  fair,  and  old 
That  the  eyes  of  men  behold. 
Mountain  gray,  and  hermit  dell, 
Sun  and  stars  unquenchable, 
Founts  whose  kisses  woo  the  lea, 
Endless,  many-flooded  sea, 
All  that  witnesses  a  power 
To  o'erawe  the  importunate  hour, 
Human  works  devoutly  wrought 
To  unfold  enduring  thought, 
Shrines  that  seem  the  reverend  birth 
Of  an  elder,  holier  earth, 
Mourn  above  your  altars  dear, 
Quaking  with  no  godless  fear  ! 
And,  thou  deepest  heart  of  man, 
Home  of  love  ere  sin  began, 
Faith  prophetic,  Mercy  mild, 
Patriot  passion  undefiled, 
Mourn  with  righteous  grief  the  day 
When  was  hush'd  your  choral  lay 
When  the  hovering  guardian  band 
Of  the  liberated  land, 
Radiant  kings,  were  seen  to  wane 
And  were  eyeless  cloud  again  ; 
When  the  foe,  who  far  recoil'd, 
By  a  maiden's  presence  foil'd, 


JOHN    STERLING* 


381 


Rush'd  again  in  grim  despair 
From  his  burning,  bloody  lair, 
And  made  prey  of  her  whose  word 
Was  so  oft  a  living  sword. 

x. 

Woful  end,  and  conflict  long ! 
Stress  of  agonizing  wrong  ! 
In  the  black  and  Stirling  cell, 
Watch'd  by  many  a  sentinel, 
Not  a  saint  is  with  her  now, 
Beaming  light  from  locks  and  brow  ; 
No  melodious  angel  calls 
Through  the  huge  unshaken  walls ; 
But  the  brutal  sworder  jeers, 
Making  merry  at  her  tears, 
And  the  priests  her  faith  assail 
Till  it  fears,  but  cannot  fail. 
So  the  hopeful  cheer  she  wore 
Like  a  robe  of  state  before — 
Branch,  and  leaf,  and  summer  flower, 
Perish  from  her  hour  by  hour. 
But  the  firm  sustaining  root 
Dies  not  with  the  feathery  shoot. 
So  survives  her  soul — but  oh  ! 
Fierce  the  closing  gust  of  wo, 
When  beneath  the  eyes  of  day 
Thousands  gather  round  her  way, 
And  a  host  in  steel  array  ; 
When  the  captive,  wan  and  lowly, 
Walks  beside  her  jailer  slowly, 
Till  before  the  expectant  pile 
Weak  she  stands,  with  saddest  smile  ; 
And  her  steady  tones  reply 
To  the  cowl'd  tormentor's  lie — 
"  God  commanded  me  to  go, 
And  I  went,  as  well  ye  know, 
To  destroy  my  country's  foe  !" 
While  she  clasps  the  saving  rood 
Fiercer  swells  the  murderers'  mood. 
Till,  through  rising  smoke  and  flame 
Comes  no  sound  but  Jesu's  name 
Jesu — Jesu — oft  renew'd, 
Oft  by  stifling  pain  subdued. 
Soon  that  cry  is  heard  no  more, 
And  the  people,  mute  before, 
Groan  to  heaven,  for  all  is  o'er. 

XI. 

Word  untrue  !     That  All  can  ne'er 
Have  its  close  and  destiny  here. 
All  that  can  be  o'er  on  earth 
Is  the  shifting  cloudland's  birth ; 
Dream  and  shadow,  mist  and  error, 
Joy  unMest,  and  nightmare  terror — 
Passions  blent  in  ghostly  play, 
Twinkling  of  a  gusty  day — 
Glittering  sights  that  vaguely  roll, 
Catch  the  eye,  but  mock  the  soul — 
Griefs  and  hopes  ill  understood, 
Tyrants  of  man's  weaker  mood, 
Folly's  loved,  portentous  brood — 
These,  and  all  the  aims  they  cherish, 
In  their  native  tomb  may  perish. 
Phantoms  shapeless,  huge,  and  wild, 
That  beset  the  graybeard  child — 


Loud  usurpers,  fierce  and  mean, 
Ruling  an  unstable  scene  ; 
Blinding  hate,  and  gnawing  lust, 
Lies  that  cheat  our  wiser  trust, 
These  may  cleave  to  formless  dust ; 
But  the  earth,  oppress'd  so  long 
By  the  heavy  steps  of  wrong, 
Sends  an  awful  voice  on  high 
With  a  keen  accusing  cry, 
And  appeals  to  him  whose  lore 
Tells — the  All  can  ne'er  be  o'er. 

XIT. 

Faithful  maiden,  gentle  heart ! 
Thus  our  thoughts  of  grief  depart; 
Vanishes  the  place  of  death ; 
Sounds  no  more  thy  painful  breath ; 
O'er  the  unbloody  stream  of  Meuse 
Melt  the  silent  evening  dews, 
And  along  the  banks  of  Loire 
Rides  no  more  the  arm'd  destroyer. 
But  thy  native  waters  flow 
Through  a  land  unnamed  below, 
And  thy  woods  their  verdure  wave 
In  the  vale  beyond  the  grave, 
Where  the  deep-dyed  western  sky 
Looks  on  all  with  tranquil  eye, 
And  on  distant  dateless  hills 
Each  high  peak  with  radiance  fills. 
There  amid  the  oak-tree  shadow, 
And  o'er  all  the  beech  crown'd  meadow, 
Those  for  whom  the  earth  must  mourn 
In  their  peaceful  joy  sojourn. 
Join'd  with  fame's  selected  few, 
Those  whom  rumor  never  knew, 
But  no  less  to  conscience  true  : 
Each  grave  prophet,  soul  sublime, 
Pyramids  of  elder  time  ; 
Bards  with  hidden  fire  possess'd, 
Flashing  from  a  wo-worn  breast ; 
Builders  of  man's  better  lot, 
Whom  their  hour  acknowledged  not, 
Now  with  strength  appeased  and  pure 
Feel  whate'er  they  loved  is  sure. 
These  and  such  as  these  the  train, 
Sanctified  by  former  pain. 
Mid  those  softest  yellow  rays 
Sphered  afar  from  mortal  praise ; 
Peasant,  matron,  monarch,  child, 
Saint  undaunted,  hero  mild, 
Sage  whom  pride  has  ne'er  beguiled  ; 
And  with  them  the  champion  maid 
Dwells  in  that  serenest  glade  ; 
Danger,  toil,  and  grief  no  more 
Fret  her  life's  unearthly  shore  ; 
Gentle  sounds  that  will  not  cease, 
Breathe  but  peace,  and  ever  peace ; 
While  above  the  immortal  trees, 
Michael  and  his  host  she  sees 
Clad  in  diamond  panoplies ; 
And  more  near,  in  tenderer  light, 
Honoured  Catherine,  Margaret  bright, 
Agnes  whom  her  loosened  hair 
Robes  like  woven  amber  air — 
Sisters  of  her  childhood  come 
To  her  last  eternal  home. 


382 


JOHN    STERLING. 


ALFRED  THE  HARPER. 

DARK  fell  the  night,  the  watch  was  set, 

The  host  was  idly  spread, 
The  dames  around  their  watchfires  met, 

Caroused,  and  fiercely  fed. 
They  feasted  all  on  English  food, 

And  quaff'd  the  English  ale, 
Their  hearts  leapt  up  with  burning  blood 

At  each  old  Norseman  tale. 

The  chiefs  beneath  a  tent  of  leaves, 

And  Guthrum,  king  of  all, 
Devour'd  the  flesh  of  England's  beeves, 

And  laugh'd  at  England's  fall. 
Each  warrior  proud,  each  Danish  earl, 

In  mail  and  wolf-skin  clad, 
Their  bracelets  white  with  plunder'd  pearl, 

Their  eyes  with  triumph  mad. 

A  mace  beside  each  king  and  lord 

Was  seen,  with  blood  bestain'd  ; 
From  golden  cups  upon  the  board 

Their  kindling  wine  they  drain'd. 
Ne'er  left  their  sad  storm-beaten  coast 

Sea-kings  so  hot  for  gore ; 
Mid  Selwood's  oaks  so  dreadful  host 

Ne'er  burnt  a  track  before. 

From  Humber-land  to  Severn-land, 

And  on  to  Tamar  stream, 
Where  Thames  makes  green  the  towery  strand, 

Where  Medway's  waters  gleam, — 
With  hands  of  steel  and  mouths  of  flame 

They  raged  the  kingdom  through  ; 
And  where  the  Norseman  sickle  came, 

No  crop  but  hunger  grew. 

They  loaded  many  an  English  horse 

With  wealth  of  cities  fair ; 
They  dragg'd  from  many  a  father's  corse 

The  daughter  by  her  hair. 
And  English  slaves,  and  gems  and  gold, 

Were  gather'd  round  the  feast; 
Till  midnight  in  their  woodland  hold, 

Oh  !  never  that  riot  ceased. 

In  stalk'd  a  warrior  tall  and  rude 

Befqre  the  strong  sea-kings ; 
"Ye  lords  and  earls  of  Odin's  brood, 

Without  a  harper  sings. 
He  seems  a  simple  man  and  poor, 

But  well  he  sounds  the  lay, 
And  well,  ye  Norseman  chiefs,  be  sure, 

Will  ye  the  song  repay." 

In  trod  the  bard  with  keen,  cold  look, 

And  glanced  along  the  board, 
That  with  the  shout  and  war-cry  shook, 

Of  many  a  Danish  lord. 
But  thirty  brows,  inflamed  and  stern, 

Soon  bent  on  him  their  gaze, 
While  calm  he  gazed,  as  if  to  learn 

Who  chief  deserved  his  praise. 

Loud  Guthrum  spake. — "Nay,  gaze  not  thus 

Thou  harper  weak  and  poor ! 
By  Thor !  who  bandy  looks  with  us, 

Must  worse  than  looks  endure. 


Sing  high  the  praise  of  Denmark's  host, 
High  praise  each  dauntless  earl ; 

The  brave  who  stun  this  English  coast 
With  war's  unceasing  whirl." 

The  harper  sat  upon  a  block, 

Heap'd  up  with  wealthy  spoil, 
The  wool  of  England's  helpless  flock, 

Whose  blood  had  stain'd  the  soil. 
He  sat  and  slowly  bent  his  head, 

And  touch'd  aloud  the  string ; 
Then  raised  his  face,  and  boldly  said, 

"Hear  thou  my  lay,  O  king! 

"  High  praise  from  all  whose  gift  is  song 

To  him  in  slaughter  tried, 
Whose  pulses  beat  in  battle  strong, 

As  if  to  meet  his  bride. 
High  praise  from  every  mouth  of  man 

To  all  who  boldly  strive, 
Who  fall  where  first  the  fight  began, 

And  ne'er  go  back  alive. 

«  But  chief  his  fame  be  quick  as  fire, 

Be  wide  as  is  the  sea, 
Who  dares  in  blood  and  pangs  expire, 

To  keep  his  country  free. 
To  such,  great  earls,  and  mighty  king ! 

Shall  praise  in  heaven  belong ; 
The  starry  harps  their  praise  shall  ring, 

And  chime  to  mortal  song. 

"  Fill  high  your  cups,  and  swell  the  shout, 

At  famous  Regnar's  name  ! 
Who  sank  his  host  in  bloody  rout, 

When  he  to  Humber  came. 
His  men  were  chased,  his  sons  were  slain, 

And  he  was  left  alone. 
They  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain 

Upon  a  dungeon  stone. 

«  With  iron  links  they  bound  him  fast ; 

With  snakes  they  fill'd  the  hole, 
That  made  his  flesh  their  long  repast, 

And  bit  into  his  soul. 
The  brood  with  many  a  poisonous  fang 

The  warrior's  heart  beset ; 
While  still  he  cursed  his  foes,  and  sang 

His  fierce  but  hopeless  threat. 

«  Great  chiefs,  why  sink  in  gloom  your  eyes  ? 

Why  champ  your  teeth  in  pain  1 
Still  lives  the  song  though  Regnar  dies ! 

Fill  high  your  cups  again. 
Ye  too,  perchance,  O  Norsemen  lords ! 

Who  fought  and  sway'd  so  long, 
Shall  soon  but  live  in  minstrel  words, 

And  owe  your  names  to  song. 

"  This  land  has  graves  by  thousands  more 

Than  that  were  Regnar  lies. 
When  conquests  fade,  and  rule  is  o'er, 

The  sod  must  close  your  eyes. 
How  soon,  who  knows  ?     Not  chief,  nor  bard; 

And  yet  to  me  'tis  givon, 
To  see  your  foreheads  deeply  scarr'd 

And  guess  the  doom  of  Heaven. 


JOHN    STERLING. 


383 


"  I  may  not  read  or  when,  or  how, 

But  earls  and  kings,  be  sure 
I  see  a  blade  o'er  every  brow, 

Where  pride  now  sits  secure. 
Fill  high  the  cups,  raise  loud  the  strain ! 

When  chief  and  monarch  fall, 
Their  names  in  song  shall  breathe  again, 

And  thrill  the  feastful  hall. 

"  Like  God's  own  voice,  in  after  years 

Resounds  the  warrior's  fame, 
Whose  deed  his  hopeless  country  cheers, 

Who  is  its  noblest  name. 
Drain  down,  O  chiefs  !  the  gladdening  bowl ! 

The  present  hour  is  yours  ; 
Let  death  to-morrow  take  the  soul, 

If  joy  to-day  endures." 

Grim  sat  the  chiefs ;  one  heaved  a  groan, 

And  one  grew  pale  with  dread, 
His  iron  mace  was  grasped  by  one, 

By  one  his  wine  was  shed. 
And  Guthrum  cried,  "  Nay,  bard,  no  more 

We  hear  thy  boding  lay  ; 
Make  drunk  the  song  with  spoil  and  gore  ; 

Light  up  the  joyous  fray  !" 

"  Quick  throbs  my  brain" — so  burst  the  song — 

"  To  hear  the  strife  once  more. 
The  mace,  the  axe,  they  rest  too  long; 

Earth  cries  mv  thirst  is  sore. 
More  blithely  twang  the  strings  of  bows 

Than  strings  of  harps  in  glee ; 
Red  wounds  are  lovelier  than  the  rose, 

Or  rosy  lips  to  me. 

"  Oh  !  fairer  than  a  field  of  flowers, 

When  flowers  in  England  grew, 
Would  be  the  battle's  marshall'd  powers, 

The  plain  of  carnage  new. 
With  all  its  deaths  before  my  soul 

The  vision  rises  fair ; 
Raise  loud  the  song,  and  drain  the  bowl ! 

I  would  that  I  were  there ! 

"  'T  is  sweet  to  live  in  honour'd  might, 

With  true  and  fearless  hand  ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  fall  in  freedom's  fight, 

Nor  shrink  before  the  brand. 
But  sweeter  far,  when  girt  by  foes, 

Unmoved  to  meet  their  frown, 
And  count  with  cheerful  thought  the  woes 

That  soon  shall  dash  them  down." 

Loud  rang  the  harp,  the  minstrel's  eye 

Roll'd  fiercely  round  the  throng ; 
It  seem'd  two  crashing  hosts  were  nigh, 

Whose  shock  aroused  the  song. 
A  golden  cup  king  Guthrum  gave 

To  him  who  strongly  play'd  ; 
And  said,  "I  won  it  from  the  slave 

Who  once  o'er  England  sway'd." 

King  Guthrum  cried,  "'Twas  Alfred's  own; 

Thy  song  befits  the  brave  ; 
The  king  who  cannot  guard  his  throne 

Nor  wine  nor  song  shall  have." 


The  minstrel  took  the  goblet  bright, 

And  said,  "I  drink  the  wine 
To  him  who  owns  by  justest  right 

The  cup  thou  bid'st  be  mine. 

«  To  him  your  lord,  oh  shout  ye  all ! 

His  meed  be  deathless  praise  ! 
The  king  who  dares  not  nobly  fall, 

Dies  basely  all  his  days. 
The  king  who  dares  not  guard  his  throne, 

May  curses  heap  his  head  ; 
But  hope  and  strength,  be  all  his  own 

Whose  blood  is  bravely  shed." 

"  The  praise  thou  speakest,"  Guthrum  said, 

"  With  sweetness  fills  mine  ear ; 
For  Alfred  swift  before  me  fled, 

And  left  me  monarch  here. 
The  royal  coward  never  dared 

Beneath  mine  eye  to  stand. 
Oh,  would  that  now  this  feast  he  shared, 

And  saw  me  rule  his  land  !" 

Then  stern  the  minstrel  rose,  and  spake, 

And  gazed  upon  the  king, — 
"  Not  now  the  golden  cup  I  take, 

Nor  more  to  thee  I  sing. 
Another  day,  a  happier  hour, 

Shall  bring  me  here  again, 
The  cup  shall  stay  in  Gu thrum's  power 

Till  I  demand  it  then." 

The  harper  turn'd  and  left  the  shed, 

Nor  bent  to  Guthrum's  crown  ; 
And  one  who  mark'd  his  visage  said 

It  wore  a  ghastly  frown. 
The  Danes  ne'er  saw  that  harper  more, 

For  soon  as  morning  rose, 
Upon  their  camp  king  Alfred  bore, 

And  slew  ten  thousand  foes. 


THE  POET'S  HOME. 

IN  the  cavern's  lonely  hall, 
By  the  mighty  waterfall, 
Lives  a  spirit  shy  and  still, 
Whom  the  soften'd  murmurs  thrill, 
Heard  within  the  twilight  nook, 
Like  the  music  of  a  brook. 

Poet !  thus  sequester  d  dwell, 
In  thy  fancy's  haunted  cell, 
That  the  floods  abroad  may  be 
Like  a  voice  of  peace  to  thee, 
While  thou  giv'st  to  nature's  tone 
Soul  and  sweetness  all  thy  own. 

Hear,  but,  ah !  intrust  thee  not 
To  the  waves  beyond  thy  grot, 
Lest  thy  low  and  wizard  strain 
Warble  through  the  storm  in  vain, 
And  thy  dying  songs  deplore 
Thou  must  see  thy  cave  no  more. 


384 


JOHN    STERLING. 


MIRABEAU. 

NOT  oft  has  peopled  earth  sent  up 

So  deep  and  wide  a  groan  before, 
As  when  the  word  astounded  France 

— "The  life  of  Mirabeau  is  o'er  !" 
From  its  one  heart  a  nation  wail'd, 

For  well  the  startled  sense  divined 
A  greater  power  had  fled  away 

Than  aught  that  now  remained  behind. 

The  scathed  and  haggard  face  of  will, 

And  look  so  strong  with  weapon'd  thought, 
Had  been  to  many  million  hearts 

The  All  between  themselves  and  naught ; 
And  so  they  stood  aghast  and  pale, 

As  if  to  see  the  azure  sky 
Come  shattering  down,  and  show  beyond 

The  black  and  bare  Infinity. 

For  he,  while  all  men  trembling  peer'd 

Upon  the  Future's  empty  space, 
Had  strength  to  bid  above  the  void 

The  oracle  unveil  its  face ; 
And  when  his  voice  could  rule  no  more, 

A  thicker  weight  of  darkness  fell, 
And  tomb'd  in  its  sepulchral  vault 

The  wearied  master  of  the  spell. 

A  myriad  hands  like  shadows  weak, 

Or  stiff  and  sharp  as  bestial  claws, 
Had  sought  to  steer  the  fluctuant  mass 

That  bore  his  country's  life  and  laws ; 
The  rudder  felt  his  giant  hand, 

And  quailed  beneath  the  living  grasp 
That  now  must  drop  the  helm  of  fate, 

Nor  pleasure's  cup  can  madly  clasp. 

France  did  not  reck  how  fierce  a  storm 

Of  rending  passion,  blind  and  grim, 
Had  ceased  its  audible  uproar 

When  death  sank  heavily  on  him ; 
Nor  heeded  they  the  countless  days 

Of  toiling  smoke  and  blasting  flame, 
That  now  by  this  one  fatal  hour 

Were  surnm'd  for  him  as  guilt  and  shame. 

The  wondrous  life  that  flow'd  so  long 

A  stream  of  all  commixtures  vile, 
Had  seem'd  for  them  in  morning  light 

With  gold  and  crystal  waves  to  smile. 
It  roll'd  with  mighty  breadth  and  sound 

A  new  creation  through  the  land, 
Then  sudden  vanish'd  into  earth, 

And  left  a  barren  waste  of  sand. 

To  them  at  first  the  world  appear'd 

Aground,  and  lying  shipwreck'd  there, 
And  freedom's  folded  flag  no  more 

With  dazzling  sun-burst  filled  the  air ; 
But  'tis  in  after  years  for  men 

A  sadder  and  a  greater  thing, 
To  muse  upon  the  inward  heart 

Of  him  who  lived  the  people's  king. 

Oh  !  wasted  strength  !     Oh  !  light  and  calm, 
And  better  hopes  so  vainly  given  ! 

Like  rain  upon  the  herbless  sea 

Poured  down  by  too  benignant  heaven — 


We  see  not  stars  unfix'd  by  winds, 
Or  lost  in  aimless  thunder-peals, 

But  man's  large  soul,  the  star  supreme, 
In  guideless  whirl  how  oft  it  reels ! 

The  mountain  hears  the  torrent  dash, 

But  rocks  will  not  in  billows  run  ; 
No  eagle's  talons  rend  away 

Those  eyes  that  joyous  drink  the  sun ; 
Yet  man,  by  choice  and  purpose  weak, 

Upon  his  own  devoted  head 
Calls  down  the  flash,  as  if  its  fires 

A  crown  of  peaceful  glory  shed. 

Alas  ! — yet  wherefore  mourn  1     The  law 

Is  holier  than  a  sage's  prayer; 
The  godlike  power  bestow'd  on  men 

Demands  of  them  a  godlike  care  ; 
And  noblest  gifts,  if  basely  used, 

Will  sternliest  avenge  the  wrong, 
And  grind  with  slavish  pangs  the  slave 

Whom  once  they  made  divinely  strong. 

The  lamp  that,  mid  the  sacred  cell, 

On  heavenly  forms  its  glory  sheds, 
Untended  dies,  and  in  the  gloom 

A  poisonous  vapor  glimmering  spreads. 
It  shines  and  flares,  and  reeling  ghosts 

Enormous  through  the  twilight  swell, 
Till  o'er  the  wither'd  world  and  heart 

Rings  loud  and  slow  the  dooming  knell. 

No  more  I  hear  a  nation's  shout 

Around  the  hero's  tread  prevailing, 
No  more  I  hear  above  his  tomb 

A  nation's  fierce  bewilder'd  wailing ; 
I  stand  amid  the  silent  night, 

And  think  of  man  and  all  his  wo, 
With  fear  and  pity,  grief  and  awe, 

When  I  remember  Mirabeau. 


LOUIS    XV. 

THE  king  with  all  his  kingly  train 

Had  left  his  Pompadour  behind, 
And  forth  he  rode  in  Senart's  wood, 

The  royal  beasts  of  chase  to  find. 
That  day  by  chance  the  monarch  mused, 

And  turning  suddenly  away, 
He  struck  alone  into  a  path 

That  far  from  crowds  and  courtiers  lay. 

He  saw  the  pale  green  shadows  play 

Upon  the  brown  untrodden  earth ; 
He  saw  the  birds  around  him  flit 

As  if  he  were  of  peasant  birth  ; 
He  saw  the  trees  that  know  no  king 

But  him  who  bears  a  woodland  axe  ; 
He  thought  not,  but  he  look'd  about 

Like  one  who  skill  in  thinking  lacks. 

Then  close  to  him  a  footstep  foil, 
And  glad  of  human  sound  was  he, 

For  truth  to  say  he  found  himself 

A  weight  from  which  he  fain  would  flee. 


JOHN    STERLING. 


385 


But  that  which  he  would  ne'er  have  guess'd 
Before  him  now  most  plainly  came ; 

The  man  upon  his  weary  back 
A  coffin  bore  of  rudest  frame. 

«  Why,  who  art  thou  1"  exclaim'd  the  king, 

"And  what  is  that  I  see  thee  bear!" 
"  I  am  a  labourer  in  the  wood, 

And  'tis  a  coffin  for  Pierre. 
Close  by  the  royal  hunting-lodge 

You  may  have  often  seen  him  toil ; 
But  he  will  never  work  again, 

And  I  for  him  must  dig  the  soil." 

The  labourer  ne'er  had  seen  the  king, 

And  this  he  thought  was  but  a  man, 
Who  made  at  first  a  moment's  pause, 

And  then  anew  his  talk  began : 
"  I  think  I  do  remember  now, — 

He  had  a  dark  and  glancing  eye, 
And  I  have  seen  his  slender  arm 

With  wondrous  blows  the  pick-axe  ply. 

"  Pray  tell  me  friend,  what  accident 

Can  thus  have  kill'd  our  good  Pierre  !" 
«  Oh  !  nothing  more  than  usual,  sir, 

He  died  of  living  upon  air. 
'T  was  hunger  kill'd  the  poor  good  man, 

Who  long  on  empty  hopes  relied  ; 
He  could  not  pay  gabell  and  tax, 

And  feed  his  children,  so  he  died." 

The  man  stopp'd  short,  and  then  went  on, — 

"  It  is,  you  know,  a  common  thing ; 
Our  children's  bread  is  eaten  up 

By  courtiers,  mistresses,  and  king." 
The  king  look'd  hard  upon  the  man, 

And  afterwards  the  coffin  eyed, 
Then  spurr'd  to  ask  of  Pompadour, 

How  came  it  that  peasants  died. 


D^DALUS. 

WAIL  for  Daedalus  all  that  is  fairest ! 

All  that  is  tuneful  in  air  or  wave  ! 
Shapes  whose  beauty  is  truest  and  rarest, 

Haunt  with  your  lamps  and  spells  his  grave ! 

Statues,  bend  your  heads  in  sorrow, 

Ye  that  glance  mid  ruins  old, 
That  know  not  a  past,  nor  expect  a  morrow 

On  many  a  moonlight  Grecian  wold  ! 

By  sculpture  cave  and  speaking  river, 
Thee,  Daedalus,  oft  the  Nymphs  recall ; 

The  leaves  with  a  sound  of  winter  quiver, 
Murmur  thy  name,  and  withering  fall. 

Yet  are  thy  visions  in  soul  the  grandest 
Of  all  that  crowd  on  the  tear-dimm'd  eye, 

Though  Daedalus  thou  no  more  commandest 
New  stars  to  that  ever-widening  sky. 

Ever  thy  phantoms  arise  before  us, 
Our  loftier  brothers,  but  one  in  blood; 

By  bed  and  table  they  lord  it  o'er  us, 

With  looks  of  beauty  and  words  of  good. 


Calmly  they  show  us  mankind  victorious 
O'er  all  that's  aimless,  blind,  and  base ; 

Their  presence  has  made  our  nature  glorious, 
Unveiling  our  night's  illumined  face. 

Thy  toil  has  won  them  a  god-like  quiet; 

Thou  hast  wrought  their  path  to  a  lovely  sphere ; 
Their  eyes  to  peace  rebuke  our  riot, 

And  shape  us  a  home  of  refuge  here. 

For  Daedalus  breathed  in  them  his  spirit ; 

In  them  their  sire  his  beauty  sees  : 
We  too,  a  younger  brood,  inherit 

The  gifts  and  blessing  bestow'd  on  these. 

But  ah  !  their  wise  and  graceful  seeming 
Recalls  the  more  that  the  sage  is  gone ; 

Weeping  we  wake  from  deceitful  dreaming, 
And  find  our  voiceless  chamber  lone. 

Daedalus  thou  from  the  twilight  fleest, 

Which  thou  with  vision  hast  made  so  bright ; 

And  when  no  more  those  shapes  thou  seest, 
Wanting  thine  eye  they  lose  their  light. 

E'en  in  the  noblest  of  man's  creations, 
Those  fresh  worlds  round  this  old  of  ours, 

When  the  seer  is  gone,  the  orphan'd  nations 
See  but  the  tombs  of  perish'd  powers. 

Wail  for  Dsedalus,  earth  and  ocean  ! 

Stars  and  sun,  lament  for  him ! 
Ages  quake,  in  strange  commotion  ! 

All  ye  realms  of  life,  be  dim  ! 

Wail  for  Dsedalus,  awful  voices, 

From  earth's  deep  centre  mankind  appal ! 

Seldom  ye  sound,  and  then  death  rejoices, 
For  he  knows  that  then  the  mightiest  fall. 


THE  AGES. 

How  swiftly  pass  a  thousand  years  ! 

And  lo !  they  all  have  flow'd  away, 
And  o'er  the  hardening  earth  appears 

Green  pasture  mix'd  with  rocks  of  gray ; 
And  there  huge  monsters  roll  and  feed, 

Each  frame  a  mass  of  sullen  life ; 
Through  slimy  .wastes  and  woods  of  reed 

They  crawl  and  tramp,  and  blend  in  strife. 

How  swiftly  pass  a  thousand  years  ! 

And  o'er  the  wide  and  grassy  plain, 
A  human  form  the  prospect  cheers, 

The  new-sprung  lord  of  earth's  domain. 
Half-clad  in  skins  he  builds  the  cell, 

Where  wife  and  child  create  a  home ; 
To  heaven  he  feels  his  spirit  swell, 

And  owns  a  might  beyond  the  dome. 

How  swiftly  pass  a  thousand  years ! 

And  lo  !  a  city  and  a  realm  ; 
Its  weighty  pile  a  temple  rears, 

And  walls  are  bright  with  sword  and  helm ; 
Each  man  is  lost  amid  a  crowd  ; 

Each  power  unknown  now  bears  a  name  ; 
And  laws,  and  feasts,  and  songs  are  loud, 

And  myriads  hail  their  monarch's  fame. 
2K 


386 


JOHN    STERLING. 


How  swiftly  pass  a  thousand  years  ! 

And  now  beside  the  rolling  sea, 
Where  many  a  sailor  nimbly  steers, 

The  ready  tribes  are  bold  and  free. 
The  graceful  shrine  adorns  the  hill ; 

The  square  of  council  spreads  below ; 
Their  theatres  a  people  fill, 

And  list  to  thought's  impassion'd  flow. 

How  swiftly  pass  a  thousand  years  ! 

We  live  amid  a  sterner  land, 
Where  laws  ordain'd  by  ancient  seers 

Have  train'd  the  soul  to  self-command. 
There  pride,  and  policy,  and  war, 

With  h'aughty  fronts  are  gazing  slow, 
And  bound  at  their  trumphal  car, 

O'ermaster'd  kings  to  darkness  go. 

How  swiftly  pass  a  thousand  years  ! 

And  chivalry  and  faith  are  strong; 
And  through  devotion's  humble  tears 

Is  seen  high  help  for  earthly  wrong : 
Fair  gleams  the  cross  with  mystic  light 

Beneath  an  arch  of  woven  gloom, 
The  burgher's  pledge  of  civil  right, 

The  sign  that  marks  the  monarch's  tomb. 

How  swift  the  years !  how  great  the  chain 

That  drags  along  our  slight  to-day  ! 
Before  that  sound  returns  again 

The  present  will  have  stream'd  away ; 
And  all  our  world  of  busy  strength 

Will  dwell  in  calmer  halls  of  time, 
And  then  with  joy  will  own  at  length, 

Its  course  is  fix'd,  its  end  sublime. 


THE  HUSBANDMAN. 

EARTH,  of  man  the  bounteous  mother, 
Feeds  him  still  with  corn  and  wine  ; 

He  who  best  would  aid  a  brother, 
Shares  with  him  these  gifts  divine. 

Many  a  power  within  her  bosom 
Noiseless,  hidden,  works  beneath  ; 

Hence  are  seed,  and  leaf,  and  blossom, 
Golden  ear  and  cluster'd  wreath. 

These  to  swell  with  strength  and  beauty, 

Is  the  royal  task  of  man  ; 
Man's  a  king,  his  throne  is  duty, 

Since  his  work  on  earth  began. 

Bud  and  harvest,  bloom  and  vintage, 
These,  like  man,  are  fruits  of  earth; 

Stamp'd  in  clay,  a  heavenly  mintage, 
All  from  dust  receive  their  birth. 

Barn  and  mill,  and  wine- vat's  treasures, 
Earthly  goods  for  earthly  lives, 

These  are  nature's  ancient  pleasures, 
These  her  child  from  her  derives. 

What  the  dream,  but  vain  rebelling, 
If  from  earth  we  sought  to  flee  1 

'T  is  our  stored  and  ample  dwelling 
'Tis  from  it  the  skies  we  see. 


Wind  and  frost,  and  hour  and  season, 
Land  and  water,  sun  and  shade, 

Work  with  these,  as  bids  thy  reason, 
For  they  work  thy  toil  to  aid. 

Sow  thy  seed  and  reap  in  gladness  ! 

Man  himself  is  all  a  seed  ; 
Hope  and  hardship,  joy  and  sadness, 

Slow  the  plant  to  ripeness  lead. 


THE  PENITENT. 

WITHIN  a  dark  monastic  cell 

A  monk's  pale  corpse  was  calmly  laid, 

Peace  on  his  lips  was  seen  to  dwell, 
And  light  above  the  forehead  play'd. 

Upon  the  stone  beneath  his  hand 

Was  found  a  small  and  written  scroll, 

And  he  whose  eye  the  record  scann'd 

From  this  dim  part  must  guess  the  whole. 

"  There  comes  a  thought  at  dead  of  night, 
And  bids  the  shapes  of  sleep  be  gone, 

A  thought  that's  more  than  thought,  a  sight 
On  which  the  sun  has  never  shone. 

"  A  pale,  stern  face,  and  sterner  far, 

Because  it  is  a  woman's  face; 
It  gleams  a  waning  worn-out  star, 

That  once  was  bright  with  morning  grace. 

"  An  icy  vision,  calm,  and  cold, 

The  sprite  of  vanish'd  hours  it  seems ; 

It  brings  to  me  the  times  of  old, 

That  look  like,  but  that  are  not,  dreams. 

"  It  brings  back  sorrows  long  gone  by, 
And  folly  stain'd  not  wash'd  with  tears ; 

Years  fall  away  like  leaves,  and  die — 
And  life's  bare  bony  stem  appears. 

«  Dark  face  !     Thou  art  not  all  a  shade 

That  fancy  bids  beside  me  be ; 
The  blood,  that  once  in  passion  play'd 

Through  my  young  veins,  beat  high  for  thee. 

"  Now  changed  and  wither'd  all !     My  sighs 
Round  thee  have  breathed  a  sicklier  air, 

And  sad  before  my  saddening  eyes 
Thou  showest  the  hues  of  my  despair. 

«  Still  prayers  are  strong,  and  God  is  good ; 

Man  is  not  made  for  endless  ill, 
Drear  sprite  !  my  soul's  tormented  mood 

Has  yet  a  hope  thou  canst  not  kill. 

"  Repentance  clothes  in  grass  and  flowers 
The  grave  in  which  the  past  is  laid ; 

And  close  to  faith's  old  minster  towers, 
The  cross  lights  up  the  ghostly  shade. 

"Around  its  foot  the  shapes  of  fear, 
Whose  eyes  my  weaker  heart  appal, 

As  sister  suppliants  thrill  the  ear 
With  cries  that  loud  for  mercy  call. 

«  Thou,  God,  wilt  hear !  Thy  pangs  are  meant 

To  heal  the  spirit,  not  destroy  ; 
And  fiends  from  hell  for  vengeance  sent, 

When  thou  commandest,  work  for  joy." 


JOHN    STERLING. 


387 


THE   MOSS  ROSE. 

MOSSY  rose  on  mossy  stone, 
Flowering  mid  the  ruins  lone, 
I  have  learnt,  beholding  thee, 
Youth  and  age  may  well  agree. 

Baby  germ  of  freshest  hue, 
Out  of  ruin  issuing  new  ; 
Moss  a  long  laborious  growth 
And  one  stalk  supporting  both : 

Thus  may  still,  while  fades  the  past, 
Life  come  forth  again  as  fast ; 
Happy  if  the  relics  sere 
Deck  a  cradle,  not  a  bier. 

Tear  the  garb,  the  spirit  flies, 
And  the  heart,  unshelter'd,  dies  ; 
Kill  within  the  nursling  flower, 
Scarce  the  green  survives  an  hour. 

Ever  thus  together  live, 
Arid  to  man  a  lesson  give, 
Moss,  the  work  of  vanished  years, 
Rose,  that  but  to-day  appears. 

Moss,  that  covers  dateless  tombs ; 
Bud  with  early  sweet  that  blooms  ; 
Childhood  thus,  in  happy  rest, 
Lies  on  ancient  wisdom's  breast. 

Moss  and  rose,  and  age  and  youth, 
Flush  and  verdure,  hope  and  truth, 
Yours  be  peace  that  knows  not  strife, 
One  the  root  and  one  the  life. 


THE  SONG  OF  EVE  TO  CAIN. 

OH  !  rest,  my  baby,  rest ! 

The  day 
Is  glowing  down  the  west ; 

Now  tired  of  sunny  play 
Upon  thy  mother's  breast 
Oh  !  rest,  my  darling,  rest ! 

Thou  first-born  child  of  man, 

In  thee 
New  joy  for  us  began, 

Which  seem'd  all  dead  to  be, 
When  that  so  needful  ban 
From  Eden  exiled  man. 

But  more  than  Paradise 

Was  ours, 
When  thou  with  angel  eyes, 

Amid  our  blighted  flowers 
Wast  born,  a  heavenly  prize 
Unknown  in  Paradise. 

My  happy  garden,  thou, 

Where  I 
Make  many  a  hopeful  vow, 

And  every  hour  espy 
New  bloom  on  each  young  bough ; 
My  sinless  tree  art  thou. 


I  fearless  reap  thy  fruit 

Of  bliss ; 
And  I  who  am  thy  root, 

Am  to  the  air  to  kiss 
The  gleams  that  o'er  thee  shoot ; 
And  fed,  I  feed  thy  fruit. 

Thy  father's  form  and  pride 

And  thought, 
In  thee  yet  undescried, 

Shall  soon  be  fully  wrought, 
Grow  tall,  and  bright,  and  wide, 
In  thee  our  hope  and  pride. 

Nay,  do  not  stir,  my  child, 

Be  still ; 
In  thee  is  reconciled 

To  man  heaven's  righteous  will. 
To  thee  the  curse  is  mild, 
And  smites  not  thee,  my  child. 

To  us  our  sin  has  borne 

Its  doom. 
From  light  dethroned  and  torn, 

'T  was  ours  to  dwell  in  gloom ; 
But  thou,  a  better  morn, 
By  that  dark  night  art  borne. 

Thou  shalt,  my  child,  be  free 

From  sin, 
Nor  taste  the  fatal  tree, 

For  thou  from  us  shalt  win 
A  wisdom  cheap  to  thee  ; 
So  thou  from  ill  be  free  ! 

My  bird,  my  flower,  my  star,   " 

My  boy  ! 
My  all  things  fair  that  are, 

My  spring  of  endless  joy, 
From  thee  is  heaven  not  far, 
From  thee,  its  earthly  star. 

So,  darling,  shalt  thou  grow 

A  man, 
While  we  shall  downward  go, 

Descend  each  day  a  span, 
And  sink  beneath  the  wo 
Of  deaths  from  sin  that  grow. 

And  thou,  perhaps,  shalt  see 

A  race 
Brought  forth  by  us,  like  thee  ; 

Thou  strength  like  thine,  and  grace, 
In  none  shall  ever  be 
Of  all  whom  earth  can  see. 

And  thou  amid  mankind 

Shalt  move 
With  glorious  form  and  mind, 

In  holiness  and  love ; 
And  all  in  thee  shall  find 
The  bliss  of  all  mankind. 

Then  rest,  my  child,  oh  rest ! 

The  day 
Has  darken'd  down  the  west. 

Thou  dream  the  night  away 
Upon  thy  mother's  breast ; 
Oh !  rest,  my  darling,  rest ! 


MRS.    MACLEAN. 


LETITIA  ELIZABETH  LANDON  was  born  in 
London,  on  the  fourteenth  day  of  August,  1802. 
Her  father,  who  was  of  a  respectable  Here- 
fordshire family,  died  when  she  was  very 
young1,  and  his  widow  and  children  were  left 
in  a  great  degree  dependent  upon  the  exertions 
of  LETITIA,  whose  habit  of  writing  had  com- 
menced in  childhood,  and  who  now  exhibited 
indications  of  that  genius  which  soon  made 
her  initial  signature  of  L.  E.  L.  everywhere 
familiar. 

Her  first  appearance  as  a  poet  was  in  the 
pages  of  the  Literary  Gazette,  to  which  she 
was  long  a  frequent  contributor;  and  her  first 
volume  was  The  Fate  of  Adelaide,  a  Swiss 
romantic  tale,  published  in  her  eighteenth 
year.  In  the  spring  of  1824  it  was  followed 
by  the  Improvisatrice  and  other  Poems,  and 
about  the  same  time  began  her  permanent 
connection  with  periodical  literature  and  criti- 
cism. The  constant  and  exhausting  drain  of 
the  press  she  bore  with  cheerfulness,  and 
her  duties  were  fulfilled  carefully  and  ear- 
nestly. For  fourteen  years  she  was  one  of 
the  most  industrious  and  successful  authors 
of  England.  In  this  period,  besides  her  re- 
views, essays,  and  other  contributions  to  lite- 
rary journals,  she  wrote  three  novels,  Romance 
and  Reality,  Francesca  Carrara,  and  Ethel 
Churchill ;  and  The  Troubadour,  the  Vene- 
tian Bracelet,  the  Golden  Violet,  the  Vow  of 
the  Peacock,  and  several  volumes  of  shorter 
poems.  Mr.  BLANCHARD,  her  biographer,  re- 
marks of  her  opinions  of  books  and  authors, 
that  there  may  be  seen  in  them  the  results 
of  much  miscellaneous  reading,  research  in 
several  foreign  languages,  and  acuteness  and 
brilliancy  of  remark,  with  hastiness  of  judg- 
ment and  prejudiced  and  inconclusive  views, 
but  no  ungenerous  or  vindictive  sentiment  or 
trace  of  an  unkindly  or  interested  feeling.  She 
often  went  far  out  of  her  way,  indeed,  to  re- 
commend the  productions  of  rivals  who  abused 
her;  and  towards  those  by  whom  she  conceived 
herself  obliged,  though  in  the  slightest  degree, 
she  was  ever  ready  to  act  the  friend  where  she 
should  have  been  the  critic  only.  Her  failings 
as  a  reviewer  leaned  to  virtue's  side;  and  the 

388 


young  writer,  with  but  a  spark  of  the  poetic 
fire  in  his  lines,  was  as  sure  of  a  gentle  sen- 
tence, of  appreciation  and  sympathy,  as  the 
established  favourite  of  a  grateful  welcome, 
and  an  honouring  tribute. 

Many  of  her  poems  were  in  their  nature  ephe- 
meral; butothers, especially  thoseof  later  years, 
were  written  with  care,  and  are  distinguished  for 
true  feeling  and  a  delicate  fancy.  From  the  be- 
ginning she  sung  in  songs  of  a  sad  tone  of 
love;  nearly  all  her  works  are  pervaded  by  a 
gentle  and  touching  melancholy;  yet  she  is 
said  to  have  been  as  gay  as  she  was  brilliant, 
delighting  her  friends  by  her  apparent  happi- 
ness as  well  as  by  her  genial  wit.  But  they 
who  write  most  rapidly  write  oftenest  from 
the  heart,  and  the  solitary  musings  of  the  study 
are  more  real  than  the  manner  or  the  opinions 
exhibited  in  society.  Miss  LANDON  became, 
with  what  reason  we  cannot  tell,  the  subject 
of  harsh  judgments  by  the  world;  her  asso- 
ciates "  began  to  wish  her  health  and  happi- 
ness in  set  terms ;"  and  she  gave  expression 
to  disappointment,  impatience,  and  scorn,  in 
writings  of  too  genuine  a  stamp  to  be  regarded 
as  the  issues  of  only  imagination.  Yet  she 
had  many  intimate  and  unchanging  friends, 
among  whom  were  some  of  the  most  eminent 
of  her  contemporaries. 

In  June,  1838,  Miss  LANDON  was  married 
to  Captain  GEORGE  MACLEAN,  Governor  of 
Cape  Coast  Castle,  and  soon  afterward  left 
England  for  Africa.  On  arriving  at  her  new 
home  she  wrote  letters  to  her  friends  in  Lon- 
don, which  told  of  happiness  and  cheerful  an- 
ticipations, but  they  were  followed  soon  by 
intelligence  of  her  death.  A  mystery  hangs 
over  her  last  days.  There  were  rumours  of 
suicide  and  of  poisoning.  According  to  the 
verdict  of  a  coroner,  her  death  was  caused  by 
prussic  acid,  taken  in  too  large  a  quantity,  to 
cure  some  slight  disease. 

The  career  of  Mrs.  MACLEAN  commenced 
brilliantly,  but  the  promise  of  her  earlier 
efforts  was  scarcely  fulfilled  in  her  subsequent 
productions,  which  were  generally  written  un- 
der circumstances  that  prevented  study  and 
elaboration.  She  had  a  deep  feeling  of  affec- 


LETITIA    E.    LANDON. 


389 


lion,  a  lively  fancy,  a  fine  eye  for  the  pic- 
turesque, and  an  unusual  command  of  poetical 
language;  and  notwithstanding  the  haste  and 
carelessness  with  which  she  wrote,  she  was 
improving  in  taste  and  execution,  and  would 
probably  have  gained  a  far  higher  reputation 
had  she  lived  a  few  more  years.  With  all 


her  faults  she  will  be  remembered  as  one  of 
the  sweetest  poets  of  the  age. 

Many  of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  MACLEAN  have 
been  often  reprinted  in  this  country;  but  the 
most  complete  American  edition  of  her  works 
is  that  of  Carey  and  Hart,  in  three  large  oc- 
tavo volumes. 


THE  FACTORY. 
'Tis  an  accursed  thing. 

THERE  rests  a  shade  above  yon  town, 

A  dark,  funereal  shroud: 
'Tis  not  the  tempest  hurrying  down, 

'Tis  not  a  summer  cloud. 

The  smoke  that  rises  on  the  air 

Is  as  a  type  and  sign ; 
A  shadow  flung  by  the  despair 

Within  those  streets  of  thine. 

That  smoke  shuts  out  the  cheerful  day, 

The  sunset's  purple  hues, 
The  moonlight's  pure  and  tranquil  ray, 

The  morning's  pearly  dews. 

Such  is  the  moral  atmosphere 

Around  thy  daily  life ; 
Heavy  with  care,  and  pale  with  fear, 

With  future  tumult  rife. 

There  rises  on  the  morning  wind 

A  low,  appealing  cry, 
A  thousand  children  are  resign'd 

To  sicken  and  to  die ! 

We  read  of  Moloch's  sacrifice, 

We  sicken  at  the  name, 
And  seem  to  hear  the  infant  cries — 

And  yet  we  do  the  same ; — 

And  worse — 'twas  but  a  moment's  pain 

The  heathen  altar  gave, 
But  we  give  years, — our  idol,  gain, 

Demands  a  living  grave ! 

How  precious  is  the  little  one 

Before  his  mother's  sight, 
With  bright  hair  dancing  in  the  sun, 

And  eyes  of  azure  light ! 

He  sleeps  as  rosy  as  the  south, 

For  summer  days  are  long; 
A  prayer  upon  his  little  mouth, 

Lull'd  by  his  nurse's  song. 

Love  is  around  him,  and  his  hours 

Are  innocent  and  free  ; 
His  min^  essays  its  early  powers 

Beside  his  mother's  knee. 

When  after-years  of  trouble  come, 
Such  as  await  man's  prime, 

How  will  he  think  of  that  dear  home, 
And  childhood's  lovely  time  ! 


And  such  should  childhood  ever  be, 

The  fairy  well ;  to  bring 
To  life's  worn,  weary  memory 

The  freshness  of  its  spring. 

But  here  the  order  is  reversed, 

And  infancy,  like  age, 
Knows  of  existence,  but  its  worst, 

One  dull  and  darken'd  page ; — 

Written  with  tears  and  stamp'd  with  toil, 
Crush'd  from  the  earliest  hour, 

Weeds  darkening  on  the  bitter  soil 
That  never  knew  a  flower. 

Look  on  yon  child,  it  droops  the  head, 
It's  knees  are  bow'd  with  pain ; 

It  mutters  from  its  wretched  bed, 
"  Oh,  let  me  sleep  again  !" 

Alas  !  'tis  time,  the  mother's  eyes 

Turn  mournfully  away ; 
Alas  !  'tis  time,  the  child  must  rise, 

And  yet  it  is  not  day. 

The  lantern's  lit — she  hurries  forth, 
The  spare  cloak's  scanty  fold 

Scarce  screens  her  from  the  snowy  north, 
The  child  is  pale  and  cold. 

And  wearily  the  little  hands 

Their  task  accustom'd  ply; 
While  daily,  some  'mid  those  pale  bands 

Droop,  sicken,  pine,  and  die. 

Good  God  !  to  think  upon  a  child 

That  has  no  childish  days, 
No  careless  play,  no  frolics  wild, 

No  words  of  prayer  and  praise  ! 

Man  from  the  cradle — 'tis  too  soon 

To  earn  their  daily  bread, 
And  heap  the  heat  and  toil  of  noon 

Upon  an  infant's  head. 

To  labour  ere  their  strength  be  come, 
Or  starve, — is  such  the  doom 

That  makes  of  many  an  English  home 
One  long  and  living  tomb  1 

Is  there  no  pity  from  above, — 

No  mercy  in  those  skies ; 
Hath  then  the  heart  of  man  no  love, 

To  spare  such  sacrifice] 

O  England !  though  thy  tribute  waves 

Proclaim  thee  great  and  free, 
While  those  small  children  pine  like  slaves, 

There  is  a  curse  on  thee ! 
2K2 


390 


LETITIA    E.    LANDON. 


THE  MINSTREL'S  MONITOR. 


and  dark  as  the  source  of  yon  river, 
Whose  birth-place  we  know  not,  and  seek  not 

to  know, 
Though  wild  as  the  flight  of  the  shaft  from  yon 

quiver, 
Is  the  course  of  its  waves  as  in  music  they  flow. 

The  lily  flings  o'er  it  its  silver  white  blossom, 
Like  ivory  barks  which  a  fairy  hath  made  ; 

The  rose  o'er  it  bends  with  its  beautiful  bosom, 
As  though  'twere  enamour'd  itself  of  its  shade. 

The  sunshine,  like  hope,  in  its  noontide  hour 

slumbers 
On  the  stream,  as  it  loved  the  bright  place  of 

its  rest  ; 

And  its  waves  pass  in  song,  as  the  sea-shell's  soft 

numbers  [best. 

Had  given  to  those  waters  their  sweetest  and 

The  banks  that  surround  it  are  flower-dropt  and 

sunny  ; 
There  the  first  birth  of  violets'  odour-showers 

weep  — 

There  the  bee  heaps  his  earliest  treasures  of  honey, 
Or  sinks  in  the  depths  of  the  harebell  to  sleep. 

Like  prisoners  escaped  during  night  from  their 

prison, 

The  waters  fling  gayly  their  spray  to  the  sun; 
Who  can  tell  me  from  whence  that  glad  river  has 
risen  ?  [not  one. 

Who  can  say  whence  it  springs  in  its  beauty  ?  — 

0  my  heart,  and  my  song,  which  is  as  my  heart's 

flowing,  [own  ! 

Read  thy  fate  in  yon  river,  for  such  is  thine 

Mid  those  the  chief  praise  on  thy  music  bestowing, 

Who  cares  for  the  lips  from  whence  issue  the 

tone? 

Dark  as  its  birth-place  so  dark  is  my  spirit, 

Whence  yet  the  sweet  waters  of  melody  came  : 

'Tis  the  long  after-course,  not  the  source,  will  in- 

herit 
The  beauty  and  glory  of  sunshine  and  fame. 


THE  FEAST  OF  LIFE. 

Bin  thee  to  my  mystic  feast, 

Each  one  thou  lovest  is  gather'd  there ; 
Yet  put  thou  on  a  mourning  robe 

And  bind  the  cypress  in  thy  hair. 
The  hall  is  vast,  and  cold,  and  drear ; 

The  board  with  fairest  flowers  is  spread  ; 
Shadows  of  beauty  flit  around, 

But  beauty  from  which  bloom  has  fled ; 

And  music  echoes  from  the  walls, 

But  music  with  a  dirgelike  sound  ; 
And  pale  and  silent  are  the  guests, 

And  every  eye  is  on  the  ground. 
Here,  take  this  cup,  though  dark  it  seem, 

And  drink  to  human  hopes  and  fears; 
'Tis  from  their  native  element, 

The  cup  is  fill'd — it  is  of  tears. 


What,  turn'st  thou  with  averted  brow  ? 

Thou  scornest  this  poor  feast  of  mine ; 
And  askest  for  a  purple  robe, 

Light  words,  glad  smiles,  and  sunny  wine. 
In  vain — the  veil  has  left  thine  eyes, 

Or  such  these  would  have  seem'd  to  thee; 
Before  thee  is  the  Feast  of  Life, 

But  life  in  its  reality  ! 

EXPERIENCE. 

MT  very  heart  is  fill'd  with  tears !  I  seem 
As  I  were  struggling  under  some  dark  dream, 
Which  roughly  bore  me  down  life's  troubled  stream. 

The  past  weighs  heavily  upon  my  soul, 
A  tyrant  mastering  me  with  stern  control ; 
The  present  has  no  rest — the  future  has  no  goal. 

For  what  can  be  again  but  what  has  been  ? 
Soon  the  young  leaf  forgets  its  early  green, 
And  shadows  with  our  sunshine  intervene. 

Quench'd  is  the  spirit's  morning  wing  of  fire ; 
We  calculate  where  once  we  could  aspire, 
And  the  high  hope  sets  in  some  low  desire. 

Experience  has  rude  lessons,  and  we  grow 

Like  what  we  have  been  taught  too  late  to  know, 

And  yet  we  hate  ourselves  for  being  so. 

Our  early  friends,  where  are  they  ?  rather,  where 
The  fond  belief  that  actual  friends  there  were, 
Not  cold  and  false  as  all  must  find  they  are] 

We  love — may  have  been  loved — but  ah!  how  faint 
The  love  that  withers  of  its  earthly  taint, 
To  what  our  first  sweet  visions  used  to  paint ! 

How  have  we  been  deceived,  forgotten,  flung 
Back  on  our  trusting  selves — the  heart's  core  wrung 
By  some  fond  faith  to  which  we  weakly  clung. 

Alas !  our  kindest  feelings  are  the  root 

Of  all  experience's  most  bitter  fruit; 

They  waste  the  life  whose  charm  they  constitute. 

At  length  they  harden,  and  we  feel  no  more 

All  that  was  felt  so  bitterly  before, 

But  with  the  softness  is  the  sweetness  o'er. 

Of  things  we  once  enjoy'd  how  few  remain  ! 
Youth's  flowers  are  flung  behind  us,  and  in  vain 
We  would  stoop  down  to  gather  them  again. 

Why  do  we  think  of  this  ?  bind  the  red  wreath — 
Float  down  Time's  water  to  the  viol's  breath, 
Wot  not  what  those  cold  billows  hide  beneath. 

We  cannot  do  this :  from  the  sparkling  brink 
Drops  the  glad  rose,  and  the  bright  waters  shrink: 
While  in  the  midst  of  mirth  we  pause  to  think ; 

And  if  we  think — we  sadden  :  thought  and  grief 
Are  vow'd  companions:  while  we  turn  the  leaf 
It  darkens,  for  the  brilliant  is  the  brief. 

Ah!  then,  farewell,  ye  lovely  things  that  brought 
Your  own  Elysium  hither  !  overwrought 
The  spirit  wearies  with  the  weight  of  thought. 

Our  better  nature  pineth — let  it  be  ! 

Thou  human  soul — earth  is  no  home  for  thee ; 

Thy  starry  rest  is  in  eternity  ! 


LETITIA    E.    LANDON. 


391 


THE  CARRIER-PIGEON  RETURNED. 

SUXSET  has  flung  its  glory  o'er  the  floods, 
That  wind  amid  Ionia's  myrtle  woods, 
Sunset  that  dies  a  conqueror  in  its  splendour; 

But  the  warm  crimson  ray 

Has  almost  sunk  away 
Beneath  a  purple  twilight  faint  and  tender. 

Soft  are  the  hues  around  the  marble  fanes, 
Whose  marble  shines  amid  the  wooded  planes; 
Fanes  where  a  false  but  lovely  creed  was  kneeling, 

A  creed  that  held  divine 

All  that  was  but  a  sign, 
The  outward  to  the  inward  world  appealing. 

Earth  was  a  child,  and  child-like  in  those  hours, 
Full  of  fresh  feelings,  and  scarce  conscious  powers, 
Around  its  own  impatient  beauty  flinging ; 

These  young  believings  were 

Types  of  the  true  and  fair, 
The  holy  faith  that  time  was  calmly  bringing. 

Still  to  those  woods,  with  ruins  fill'd,  belong 

The  ancient  immortality  of  song, 

Names  and  old  words  whose  music  is  undying, 

Yet  do  they  haunt  the  heart 

With  its  divinest  part, 
The  past  that  to  the  present  is  replying. 

The  purple  ocean  far  beneath  her  feet, 

The  wild  thyme  on  the  fragrant  hill  her  seat, 

As  in  the  days  of  old  there  leans  a  maiden, 

Many  have  watch'd  before 

The  breaking  waves  ashore, 
Faint  with  uncounted  moments  sorrow-laden. 

Writh  cold  and  trembling  hand 

She  has  undone  the  band 

Around  the  carrier-pigeon  just  alighted, 

And  instant  dies  away 

The  transitory  ray 
From  the  dark  eye  it  had  one  instant  lighted. 

The  sickness  of  a  hope  too  long  deferr'd 
Sinks  on  her  heart,  it  is  no  longer  stirr'd 
By  the  quick  presence  of  the  sweet  emotion, 

Sweet  even  unto  pain, 

With  which  she  sees  again 
Her  bird  come  sweeping  o'er  the  purple  ocean. 

Wo  for  the  watcher,  still  it  doth  not  bring 
A  letter  nestled  fragrant  'neath  its  wing; 
There  is  no  answer  to  her  fond  inquiring, 

Again,  and  yet  again, 

No  letter  o'er  the  main 
Quiets  the  anxious  spirit's  fond  desiring. 

Down  the  ungather'd  darkness  of  her  hair 
Floats,  like  a  pall  that  covers  her  despair, 
What  woman's  care  hath  she  in  her  adorning; 
The  noontide's  sultry  hours 
Have  wither'd  the  white  flowers, 
Binding  its  dark  lengths  in  the  early  morning. 

All  day  her  seat  hath  been  beside  the  shore, 
Watching  for  him  who  will  return  no  more ; 
He  thinks  not  of  her  or  her  weary  weeping. 

Absence,  it  is  thy  lot 

To  be  too  soon  forgot, 
Or  to  leave  memory  but  to  one  sad  keeping. 


Oh,  folly  of  a  loving  heart  that  clings 
With  desperate  faith,  to  which  each  moment  brings 
Quick  and  faint  gleams  an  instant's  thought  must 
smother ; 

And  yet  finds  mocking  scope 

For  some  unreal  hope, 
Which  would  appear  despair  to  any  other ! 

She  knows  the  hopelessness  of  what  she  seeks, 
And  yet  as  soon  as  rosy  morning  breaks, 
Doth  she  unloose  her  pigeon's  silken  fetter ; 

But  through  the  twilight  air 

No  more  its  pinions  bear, 
What  once  so  oft  they  brought,  the  false  one's  letter. 

The  harvest  of  the  summer  rose  is  spread, 
But  lip  and  cheek  with  her  have  lost  their  red; 
There  is  the  paleness  of  the  soul's  consuming — 

Fretfully  day  by  day 

In  sorrow  worn  away  ; 
Youth,  joy,  and  bloom  have  no  more  sure  entombing. 

It  is  a  common  story  which  the  air 

Has  had  around  the  weary  world  to  bear, 

That  of  the  trusting  spirit's  vain  accusing ; 

Yet  once  how  firm  and  fond 

Seem'd  the  eternal  bond 
That  now  a  few  brief  parted  days  are  loosing. 

Close  to  her  heart  the  weary  pioreon  lies, 

Gazing  upon  her  with  its  earnest  eyes, 

Which  seem  to  ask — Why  are  we  thus  neglected  1 

It  is  the  still  despair 

Of  passion  forced  to  bear 
Its  deep  and  tender  offering  rejected. 

Poor  girl !  her  soul  is  heavy  with  the  past ; 
Around  the  shades  of  night  are  falling  fast; 
Heavier  still  the  shadow  passing  o'er  her. 

The  maiden  will  no  more 

Watch  on  the  sea-beat  shore — 
The  darkness  of  the  grave  is  now  before  her. 


SUCCESS  ALONE  SEEN. 

FEW  know  of  life's  beginnings — men  behold 
The  goal  achieved  ; — the  warrior,  when  his  sword 
Flashes  red  triumph  in  the  noonday  sun  ; 
The  poet,  when  his  lyre  hangs  on  the  palm ; 
The  statesman,  when  the  crowd  proclaim  his  voice, 
And  mould  opinion,  on  his  gifted  tongue: 
They  count  not  life's  first  steps,  and  never  think 
Upon  the  many  miserable  hours 
When  hope  deferr'd  was  sickness  to  the  heart. 
They  reckon  not  the  battle  and  the  march, 
The  long  privations  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 
They  never  see  the  banner  till  unfurl'd. 
What  are  to  them  the  solitary  nights 
Past  pale  and  anxious  by  the  sickly  lamp, 
Till  the  young  poet  wins  the  world  at  last 
To  listen  to  the  music  long  his  own  1 
The  crowd  attend  the  statesman's  fiery  mind 
That  makes  their  destiny  ;  but  they  do  not  trace 
Its  struggle,  or  its  long  expectancy. 
Hard  are  life's  early  steps ;  and,  but  that  youth 
Is  buoyant,  confident,  and  strong  in  hope, 
Men  would  behold  its  threshold,  and  despair. 


392 


LETITIA    E.    LANDON. 


STANZAS. 

OH,  no  !  my  heart  can  never  be 

Again  in  lightest  hopes  the  same ; 
The  love  that  lingers  there  for  thee 

Has  more  of  ashes  than  of  flame. 

Still  deem  not  but  that  I  am  yet 

As  much  as  ever  all  thine  own  ; 
Though  now  the  soul  of  love  be  set 

On  a  heart  chill'd  almost  to  stone. 

And  can  you  marvel  1  only  look 

On  all  that  heart  has  had  to  bear — 
On  all  that  it  has  yet  to  brook, 

And  wonder  then  at  its  despair. 

Oh,  love  is  destiny,  and  mine 

Has  long  been  struggled  with  in  vain ; 

Victim  or  votary,  at  thy  shrine 

There  I  am  vow'd — there  must  remain. 

My  first — my  last — my  only  love, 

Oh  blame  me  not  for  that  I  dwell 
On  all  that  I  have  had  to  prove 

Of  Love's  despair,  of  Hope's  farewell. 

I  think  upon  mine  early  dreams, 

When  youth,  hope,  joy,  together  sprung; 

The  gushing  forth  of  mountain  streams, 
On  which  no  shadow  had  been  flung. 

When  love  seem'd  only  meant  to  make 

A  sunshine  on  life's  silver  seas, — 
Alas,  that  we  should  ever  wake, 

And  wake  to  weep  o'er  dreams  like  these ! 

I  loved,  and  love  was  like  to  me 

The  spirit  of  a  fairy  tale, 
When  we  have  but  to  wish,  and  be 

Whatever  wild  wish  may  prevail. 

I  deem'd  that  love  had  power  to  part 
The  chains  and  blossoms  of  life's  thrall, 

Make  an  Elysium  of  the  heart, 
And  shed  its  influence  over  all. 

I  link'd  it  with  all  lovely  things, 

Beautiful  pictures,  tones  of  song, 
All  those  pure,  high  imaginings, 

That  but  in  thought  to  earth  belong. 

And  all  that  was  unreal  became 

Reality  when  blent  with  thee — 
It  was  but  colouring  that  flame, 

More  than  a  lava  flood  to  me. 

I  was  not  happy — love  forbade 

Peace  by  its  feverish  restlessness  ; 
But  this  was  sweet,  and  then  I  had 

Hope,  which  relies  on  happiness. 

I  need  not  say  how,  one  by  one, 

Love's  flowers  have  dropp'd  from  off  love's  chain; 
Enough  to  say  that  they  are  gone, 

And  that  they  cannot  bloom  again. 

I  know  not  what  the  pangs  may  be 
That  hearts  betray 'd  or  slighted  pro 

I  speak  but  of  the  misery 

That  waits  on  fond  and  mutual  love. 


The  torture  of  an  absent  hour, 

When  doubts  mock  reason's  faint  control ; 
'Tis  fearful  thinking  of  the  power 

Another  holds  upon  our  soul ! 

To  think  another  has  in  thrall 

All  of  life's  best  and  dearest  part ; 

Our  hopes,  affections,  trusted  all 

To  that  frail  bark — the  human  heart. 

To  yield  thus  to  another's  reign  ; 

To  live  but  in  another's  breath — 
To  double  all  life's  powers  of  pain — 

To  die  twice  in  another's  death ; 

While  these  things  present  to  me  seem, 
And  what  can  now  the  past  restore, 

Love  as  I  may,  yet  I  can  dream 
Of  happiness  in  love  no  more. 


NECESSITY. 

Ix  the  ancestral  presence  of  the  dead 
Sits  a  lone  power — a  veil  upon  the  head, 
Stern  with  the  terror  of  an  unseen  dread. 

It  sitteth  cold,  immutable,  and  still, 
Girt  with  eternal  consciousness  of  ill, 
And  strong  and  silent  as  its  own  dark  will. 

We  are  the  victims  of  its  iron  rule, 

The  warm  and  beating  human  heart  its  tool; 

And  man,  immortal,  godlike,  but  its  fool. 

We  know  not  of  its  presence,  though  its  power 
Be  on  the  gradual  round  of  every  hour, 
Now  flinging  down  an  empire,  now  a  flower. 

And  all  things  small  and  careless  are  its  own, 
Unwittingly  the  seed  minute  is  sown, 
The  tree  of  evil  out  of  it  is  grown. 

At  times  we  see  and  struggle  with  our  chain, 
And  dream  that  somewhat  we  are  freed,  in  vain ; 
The  mighty  fetters  close  on  us  again. 

We  mock  our  actual  strength  with  lofty  thought, 
And  towers  that  look  into  the  heavens  are  wrought, 
But  after  all  our  toil  the  task  is  naught. 

Down  comes  the  stately  fabric,  and  the  sands 
Are  scatter'd  with  the  work  of  myriad  hands, 
High  o'er  whose  pride  the  fragile  wild-flower  stands. 

Such  are  the  wreck  of  nations  and  of  kings, 
Far  in  the  desert,  where  the  palrn-tree  springs ; 
'Tis  the  same  story  in  all  meaner  things. 

The  heart  builds  up  its  hopes,  though  not  address'd 

To  meet  the  sunset  glories  of  the  west, 

But  garner'd  in  some  still  sweet-singing  nest. 

But  the  dark  power  is  on  its  noiseless  way, 
The  song  is  silent  so  sweet  yesterday, 
And  not  a  green  leaf  lingers  on  the  spray. 

We  mock  ourselves  with  freedom  and  with  hope, 
The  while  our  feet  glide  down  lite's  faithless  slope; 
One  has  no  strength,  the  other  has  no  scope. 

So  we  are  flung  on  time's  tumultuous  wave, 
Forced  there  to  struggle,  but  denied  to  save, 
Till  the  stern  tide  ebbs — and  there  is  the  grave. 


LETITIA    E.    LANDON. 


MEMORY. 

I  DO  not  say  bequeath  unto  my  soul 

Thy  memory,  I  rather  ask  forgetting ; 
Withdraw,  I  pray,  from  me  thy  strong  control, 

Leave  something  in  the  wide  world  worth  regret- 
ting. 
I  need  my  thoughts  for  other  things  than  thee, 

I  dare  not  let  thine  image  fill  them  only ; 
The  hurried  happiness  it  wakes  in  me 

Will  leave  the  hours  that  are  to  come  more  lonely. 

I  live  not  like  the  many  of  my  kind ; 

Mine  is  a  world  of  feelings  and  of  fancies, 
Fancies  whose  rainbow-empire  is  the  mind, 

Feelings  that  realize  their  own  romances. 

To  dream  and  to  create  has  been  my  fate, 

Alone,  apart  from  life's  more  busy  scheming ; 

I  fear  to  think  that  I  may  find  too  late 

Vain  was  the  toil,  and  idle  was  the  dreaming. 

Have  I  uprear'd  my  glorious  pyre  of  thought 
Up  to  the  heavens,  but  for  my  own  entombing? 

The  fair  and  fragrant  things  that  years  have  brought, 
Must  they  be  gather'd  for  my  own  consuming'! 

Oh  !  give  me  back  the  past  that  took  no  part 
In  the  existence  it  was  but  surveying ; 

That  knew  not  then  of  the  awaken'd  heart 
Amid  the  life  of  other  lives  decaying. 

Why  should  such  be  mine  own  1     I  sought  it  not: 
More  than  content  to  live  apart  and  lonely, 

The  feverish  tumult  of  a  loving  lot 

Is  what  I  wish'd,  and  thought  to  picture  only. 

Surely  the  spirit  is  its  own  free  will ; 

What  should  o'ermaster  mine  to  vain  complying 
WTith  hopes  that  call  down  what  they  bring  of  ill, 

With  fears  to  their  own  questioning  replying? 

In  vain,  in  vain !     Fate  is  above  us  all ; 

We  struggle,  but  what  matters  our  endeavour  ? 
Our  doom  is  gone  beyond  our  own  recall, 

May  we  deny  or  mitigate  it  1   never  ! 

And  what  art  thou  to  me,  thou  who  dost  wake 
The  mind's  still  depths  with  trouble  and  repining? 

Nothing;  though  all  things  now  thy  likeness  take; 
Nothing,  and  life  has  nothing  worth  resigning. 

Ah,  yes !  one  thing,  thy  memory  ;  though  grief 
Watching  the  expiring  beam  of  hope's  last  ember; 

Life  had  one  hour,  bright,  beautiful,  and  brief, 
And  now  its  only  task  is  to  remember. 


RESOLVES. 

WHAT  mockeries  are  our  most  firm  resolves ; 
To  will  is  ours,  but  not  to  execute. 
We  map  our  future  like  some  unknown  coast, 
And  say,  "  Here  is  a  harbour,  here  a  rock — 
The  one  we  will  attain,  the  other  shun  :" 
And  we  do  neither.    Some  chance  gale  springs  up 
And  bears  us  far  o'er  some  unfathom'd  sea; 
Our  efforts  are  all  vain  ;  at  length  we  yield 
To  winds  and  waves  that  laugh  at  man's  control. 
50 


WE  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN ! 

WE  might  have  been  !  these  are  but  common  words, 
And  yet  they  make  the  sum  of  life's  bewailing; 

They  are  the  echo  of  those  finer  chords, 

Whose  music  life  deplores  when  unavailing. 
We  might  have  been  ! 

We  might  have  been  so  happy  !  says  the  child, 
Pent  in  the  weary  school-room  during  summer, 

When  the  green  rushes  mid  the  marshes  wild, 
And  rosy  fruits,  attend  the  radiant  comer. 
We  might  have  been  ! 

It  is  the  thought  that  darkens  on  our  youth, 
When  first  experience,  sad  experience,  teaches 

What  fallacies  we  have  believed  for  truth, 
And  what  few  truths  endeavour  ever  reaches. 
We  might  have  been ! 

Alas  !  how  different  from  what  we  are 

Had  we  but  known  the  bitter  path  before  us ; 

But  feelings,  hopes,  and  fancies  left  afar, 

What  in  the  wide  bleak  world  can  e'er  restore  us? 
We  might  have  been  ! 

It  is  the  motto  of  all  human  things, 

The  end  of  all  that  waits  on  mortal  seeking; 

The  weary  weight  upon  Hope's  flagging  wings. 
It  is  the  cry  of  the  worn  heart  while  breaking — 
We  might  have  been  ! 

And  when,  warm  with  the  heaven  that  gave  it  birth, 
Dawns   on   our  world-worn   way  Love's  hour 

Elysian, 
The  last  fair  angel  lingering  on  our  earth, 

The  shadow  of  what  thought  obscures  the  vision? 
We  might  have  been  ! 

A  cold  fatality  attends  on  love, 

Too  soon  or  else  too  late  the  heart-beat  quickens; 
The  star  which  is  our  fate  springs  up  above, 

And  we  but  say,  while  round  the  vapour  thickens, 
We  might  have  been  ! 

Life  knoweth  no  like  misery  ;  the  rest 

Are  single  sorrows,  but  in  this  are  blended 

All  sweet  emotions  that  disturb  the  breast ; 
The  light  that  was  our  loveliest  is  ended. 
We  might  have  been  ! 

Henceforth,  how  much  of  the  full  heart  must  be 
A  sealed  book  at  whose  contents  we  tremble  ? 

A  still  voice  mutters  mid  our  misery, 

The  worst  to  hear,  because  it  must  dissemble — 
We  might  have  been  ! 

Life  is  made  up  of  miserable  hours, 

And  all  of  which  we  craved  a  brief  possessing, 
For  which  we  wasted  wishes,  hopes,  and  powers, 

Comes  with  some  fatal  drawback  on  the  blessing. 
We  might  have  been  ! 

The  future  never  renders  to  the  past 

The  young  beliefs  intrusted  to  its  keeping ; 

Inscribe  one  sentence — life's  first  truth  and  last — 
On  the  pale  marble  where  our  dust  is  sleeping — 
We  might  have  been  ! 


394 


LETITIA    E.    LAN  DON. 


A  LONG  WHILE  AGO. 

STILT,  hangeth  down  the  old  accustom'd  willow, 

Hiding  the  silver  underneath  each  leaf, 
So  drops  the  long  hair  from  some  maiden  pillow, 

When  midnight  heareth  the  else  silent  grief; 
There  floats  the  water-lily,  like  a  sovereign 

Whose  lovely  empire  is  a  fairy  world, 
The  purple  dragon-fly  above  it  hovering, 

As  when  its  fragile  ivory  uncurl'd 
A  long  while  ago. 

I  hear  the  bees  in  sleepy  music  winging    [noon — 

From  the  wild  thyme  when  they  have  pass'd  the 
There  is  the  blackbird  in  the  hawthorn  singing, 

Stirring  the  white  spray  with  the  same  sweet  tune; 
Fragrant  the  tansy  breathing  from  the  meadows, 

As  the  west  wind  bends  down  the  long  green  grass, 
Now  dark,  now  golden,  as  the  fleeting  shadows 

Of  the  light  clouds  past  as  they  wont  to  pass 
A  long  while  ago. 

There  are  the  roses  which  we  used  to  gather 

To  bind  a  young  fair  brow  no  longer  fair; 
Ah !  thou  art  mocking  us,  thou  summer  weather, 

To  be  so  sunny,  with  the  loved  one  where  ? 
'Tis  not  her  voice — 'tis  not  her  step — that  lingers 

In  the  lone  familiar  sweetness  on  the  wind  ; 
The  bee,  the  bird,  are  now  the  only  singers — 

Where  is  the  music  once  with  their's  combined 
A  long  while  ago  1 

As  the  lorn  flowers  that  in  her  pale  hands  perish'd 

Is  she  who  only  hath  a  memory  here. 
She  was  so  much  a  part  of  us,  so  cherish'd, 

So  young,  that  even  love  forgot  to  fear. 
Now  is  her  image  paramount,  it  reigneth 

With  a  sad  strength  that  time  may  not  subdue; 
And  memory  a  mournful  triumph  gaineth, 

As  the  slow  looks  we  cast  around  renew 
A  long  while  ago. 

Thou  lovely  garden  !  where  the  summer  covers 
The  tree  with  green  leaves,  and  the  ground  with 
flowers; 

Darkly  the  past  around  thy  beauty  hovers — 
The  past — the  grave  of  our  once  happy  hours. 

It  is  too  sad  to  gaze  upon  the  seeming 

Of  nature's  changeless  loveliness,  and  feel    [ing 

That,  with  the  sunshine  round,  the  heart  is  dream- 
Darkly  o'er  wounds  inflicted,  not  to  heal, 
A  long  while  ago. 

Ah !  visit  not  the  scenes  where  youth  and  childhood 

Pass'd  years  that  deepen'd  as  those  years  went  by; 
Shadows  will  darken  in  the  careless  wildvvood — 

There  will  be  tears  upon  the  tranquil  sky. 
Memories,  like  phantoms,  haunt  me  while  I  wander 

Beneath  the  drooping  boughs  of  each  old  tree : 
I  grow  too  sad  as  mournfully  I  ponder 

Things  that  are  not — and  yet  that  used  to  be — 
A  long  while  ago. 

Worn  out — the  heart  seems  like  a  ruin'd  altar ; 

Where  are  the  friends,and  where  the  faith  of  yore] 
My  eyes  grow  dim  with  tears,  my  footsteps  falter, 

Thinking  of  those  whom  I  can  love  no  more. 


We  change,  and  others  change,  while  recollection 
Would  fain  renew  what  it  can  but  recall. 

Dark  are  life's  dreams,  and  weary  its  affection, 
And  cold  its  hopes,  and  yet  I  felt  them  all 
A  long  while  ago. 


CAN  YOU  FORGET  ME? 

CAN  you  forget  me  1  I  who  have  so  cherish'd 

The  veriest  trifle  that  was  memory's  link ; 
The  roses  that  you  gave  me,  although  perish'd, 

Were  precious  in  my  sight;  they  made  me  think 
You  took  them  in  their  scentless  beauty  stooping 

From  the  warm  shelter  of  the  garden  wall ; 
Autumn,  while  into  languid  winter  drooping 

Gave  its  last  blossoms,  opening  but  to  fall. 
Can  you  forget  them  1 

Can  you  forget  me  1  I  am  not  relying 

On  plighted  vows — alas  !  I  know  their  worth; 
Man's  faith  to  woman  is  a  trifle,  dying 

Upon  the  very  breath  that  gave  it  birth ; 
But  I  remember  hours  of  quiet  gladness, 

When,  if  the  heart  had  truth,  it  spoke  it  then, 
When  thoughts  would  sometimes  take  a  tone  of  sad- 

And  then  unconsciously  grow  glad  again,    [ness, 
Can  you  forget  them  1 

Can  you  forget  me  1   My  whole  soul  was  blended  : 

At  least  it  sought  to  blend  itself  with  thine  ; 
My  life's  whole  purpose,  winning  thee,  seem'd  ende  d; 

Thou  wert  my  heart's  sweet  home — my  spirit's 

shrine. 
Can  you  forget  me?  when  the  firelight  burning, 

Flung  sudden  gleams  around  the  quiet  room, 
How  would  thy  words,  to  long  past  moments  turning, 

Trust  me  with  thoughts  soft  as  the  shadowy  gloom! 
Can  you  forget  them  1 

There  is  no  truth  in  love,  whate'er  its  seeming, 

And  heaven  itself  could  scarcely  seem  more  true, 
Sadly  have  I  awaken'd  from  the  dreaming, 

Whose  charmed  slumber,  false  one !  was  of  you. 
I  gave  mine  inmost  being  to  thy  keeping — 

I  had  no  thought  I  did  not  seek  to  share ; 
Feelings  that  hush'd  within  my  soul  were  sleeping, 

Waked  into  voice  to  trust  them  to  thy  care. 
Can  you  forget  them  ] 

Can  you  forget  me  ?  This  is  vainly  tasking 

The  faithless  heart  where  I,  alas  !  am  not. 
Too  well  I  know  the  idleness  of  asking — 

The  misery — of  why  am  I  forgot  1 
The  happy  hours  that  I  have  pass'd  while  kneeling 

Half  slave,  half  child,  to  gaze  upon  thy  face. 
— But  what  to  thee  this  passionate  appealing — 

Let  my  heart  break — it  is  a  common  case. 
You  have  forgotten  me. 


THE  FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL  ! 

Shadows  and  scenes  that  have,  for  many  hours, 
Been  my  companions;  I  part  from  ye  like  friends- 
Dear  and  familiar  ones — with  deep  sad  thoughts, 
And  hopes,  almost  misgivings  ! 


LETITIA    E.    LANDON. 


395 


CALYPSO  WATCHING  THE  OCEAN. 

YEARS,  years  have  pass'd  away, 
Since  to  yonder  fated  bay 

Did  the  hero  come. 
Years,  years  have  pass'd  the  while 
Since  he  left  the  lovely  isle 

For  his  Grecian  home. 
He  is  with  the  dead — but  she 
Weepeth  on  eternally 

In  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

Mid  the  far  off  southern  seas. 

Downwards  floateth  her  bright  hair, 
Fair — how  exquisitely  fair ! 

But  it  is  unbound. 
Never  since  that  parting  hour 
Golden  band  or  rosy  flower 

In  it  has  been  wound  ! 
There  it  droopeth  sadly  bright, 
In  the  morning's  sunny  light, 

On  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

In.  the  far  off  southern  seas. 

Like  a  marble  statue  placed, 
Looking  o'er  the  watery  waste, 

With  its  white  fix'd  gaze  ; 
There  the  goddess  sits,  her  eye 
Raised  to  the  unpitying  sky  : 

So  uncounted  days 
Has  she  ask'd  of  yonder  main, 
Him  it  will  not  bring  again 

To  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

In  the  far  off  southern  seas. 

To  that  stately  brow  is  given 
Loveliness  that  sprung  from  heaven — 

Is,  like  heaven,  bright  : 
Never  there  may  time  prevail, 
But  her  perfect  face  is  pale; 

And  a  troubled  light 
Tells  of  one  who  may  not  die, 
Vex'd  with  immortality, 

In  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

Mid  the  far  off  southern  seas. 

Desolate  beside  that  strand, 
Bow'd  upon  her  cold,  white  hand, 

Is  her  radiant  head  ; 
Silently  she  sitteth  there, 
While  her  large  eyes  on  the  air 

Traced  the  much-loved  dead : 
Eyes  that  know  not  tears  nor  sleep, 
Would  she  not  be  glad  to  weep, 

In  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

Mid  the  far  off  southern  seas. 

Far  behind,  the  fragrant  pile 
Sends  its  odours  through  the  isle ; 

And  the  winds  that  stir 
In  the  poplars  are  imbued 
With  the  cedar's  precious  wood, 

With  incense  and  with  myrrh, 
Till  the  azure  waves  beneath 
Bear  away  the  scented  breath 

Of  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

In  the  far  off  southern  seas. 


But  no  more  does  that  perfume 
Hang  around  the  purple  loom 

Where  Calypso  wove 
Threads  of  gold  with  curious  skill, 
Singing  at  her  own  sweet  will 

Ancient  songs  of  love  ; 
Weary  on  the  sea-wash'd  shore, 
She  will  sing  those  songs  no  more 

In  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

Mid  the  far  off  southern  seas. 

From  the  large  green  leaves  escape 
Clusters  of  the  blooming  grape  ; 

Round  the  shining  throne 
Still  the  silver  fountains  play, 
Singing  on  through  night  and  day, 

But  they  sing  alone: 
Lovely  in  their  early  death, 
No  one  binds  a  violet  wreath, 

In  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

Mid  the  far  off  southern  seas. 

Love  and  Fate — oh,  fearful  pair! 
Terrible  in  strength  ye  are ; 

Until  ye  had  been, 
Happy  as  a  summer  night, 
Conscious  of  its  own  sweet  light, 

Was  that  Island-queen. 
Would  she  could  forget  to  grieve, 
Or  that  she  could  die,  and  leave 

The  lone  and  lovely  island 

Mid  the  far  off  southern  seas. 

She  is  but  the  type  of  all, 
Mortal  or  celestial, 

Who  allow  the  heart, 
In  its  passion  and  its  power, 
On  some  dark  and  fated  hour, 

To  assert  its  part. 
Fate  attends  the  steps  of  Love, 
Both  brought  misery  from  above 

To  the  lone  and  lovely  island 

Mid  the  far  off  southern  seas. 


DESPONDENCY. 

AH,  tell  me  not  that  memory 

Sheds  gladness  o'er  the  past ; 
What  is  recall'd  by  faded  flowers, 

Save  that  they  did  not  last  ? 
Were  it  not  better  to  forget, 
Than  but  remember  and  regret  1 

Look  back  upon  your  hours  of  youth — 

What  were  your  early  years, 
But  scenes  of  childish  cares  and  griefs? 

And  say  not  childish  tears 
Were  nothing ;  at  that  time  they  were 
More  than  the  young  heart  well  could  bear. 

Go  on  to  riper  years,  and  look 

Upon  your  sunny  spring ; 
And  from  the  wrecks  of  former  years, 

What  will  your  memory  bring  1 
Affections  wasted,  pleasures  fled, 
And  hopes  now  number'd  with  the  dead  ! 


396 


LETITIA    E.    LANDON. 


THE  WRONGS  OF  LOVE. 

ALAS,  how  bitter  are  the  wrongs  of  love ! 
Life  has  no  other  sorrow  so  acute : 
For  love  is  made  of  every  fine  emotion, 
Of  generous  impulses,  and  noble  thoughts; 
It  looketh  to  the  stars,  and  dreams  of  heaven ; 
It  nestles  mid  the  flowers,  and  sweetens  earth. 
Love  is  aspiring,  yet  is  humble,  too : 
It  doth  exalt  another  o'er  itself, 
With  sweet  heart-homage,  which  delights  to  raise 
That  which  it  worships ;  yet  is  fain  to  win 
The  idol  to  its  lone  and  lowly  home 
Of  deep  affection.     'Tis  an  utter  wreck 
When  such  hopes  perish.    From  that  moment,  life 
Has  in  its  depths  a  well  of  bitterness, 
For  which  there  is  no  healing. 


THE  OLD  TIMES. 

Do  you  recall  what  now  is  living  only 

Amid  the  memories  garner'd  at  the  heart? 
The  quiet  garden,  quiet  and  so  lonely, 

Where  fruit  and  flowers  had  each  an  equal  part? 
When  we  had  gather'd  cowslips  in  the  meadow 

We  used  to  bear  them  to  the  ancient  seat, 
Moss-grown,  beneath  the  apple-tree's  soft  shadow, 

Which  flung  its  rosy  blossoms  at  our  feet, 
In  the  old,  old  times, 
The  dear  old  times. 

Ne'er  was  the  well  o'er  whose  damp  walls  were 

weeping 

Stonecrop,  and  grounsel,  and  pale  yellow  flowers, 
While  o'er  the  banks  the  strawberry  plants  were 

creeping 

In  the  white  beauty  of  June's  earliest  hours. 
The  currant-bush  and  lilac  grew  together ; 

The  bean's  sweet  breath  was  blended  with  the 
Alike  rejoicing  in  the  pleasant  weather         [rose ; 
That  brought  the  bloom  to  these,  the  fruit  to  those, 
In  the  old,  old  times, 
The  dear  old  times. 

There  was  no  fountain  over  marble  falling; 

But  the  bees  murmur'd  one  perpetual  song, 
Like  soothing  waters,  and  the  birds  were  calling 

Amid  the  fruit-tree  blossoms  all  day  long ; 
Upon  the  sunny  grass-plot  stood  the  dial, 

Whose  measured  time  strange  contrast  with  ours 
Ah  !  was  it  omen  of  life's  after  trial,  [made  : 

That  even  then  the  hours  were  told  in  shade, 
In  the  old,  old  times, 
The  dear  old  times  ] 

But  little  reck'd  we  then  of  those  sick  fancies 
To  which  in  after  life  the  spirit  yields : 

Our  world  was  of  the  fairies  and  romances 

With  which  we  wander'd  o'er  the  summer  fields ; 

Then  did  we  question  of  the  down-balls  blowing 
To  know  if  some  slight  wish  would  come  to  pass ; 

If  showers  we  fear'd,  we  sought  where  there  was 
growing 


Some  weather  flower  which  was  our  weather  glass: 
In  the  old,  old  times 
The  dear  old  times. 

Yet  my  heart  warms  at  these  fond  recollections, 

Breaking  the  heavy  shadow  on  my  day. 
Ah  !  who  hath  cared  for  all  the  deep  affections — 

The  love,  the  kindness  I  have  thrown  away  ? 
The  dear  old  garden  !     There  is  now  remaining 

As  little  of  its  bloom  as  rests  with  me. 
Thy  only  memory  is  this  sad  complaining, 

Mourning  that  never  more  for  us  can  be 
The  old,  old  times, 
The  dear  old  times. 


CRESCENTIUS. 

I  LOOK'D  upon  his  brow,  no  sign 

Of  guilt  or  fear  was  there ; 
He  stood  as  proud  by  that  death-shrine 

As  even  o'er  Despair 
He  had  a  power ;  in  his  eye 
There  was  a  quenchless  energy, 

A  spirit  that  could  dare 
The  deadliest  form  that  Death  could  take, 
And  dare  it  for  the  daring's  sake. 

He  stood,  the  fetters  on  his  hand, 

He  raised  them  haughtily  ; 
And  had  that  grasp  been  on  the  brand, 

It  could  not  wave  on  high 
With  freer  pride  than  it  waved  now. 
Around  he  look'd  with  changeless  brow 

On  many  a  torture  nigh : 
The  rack,  the  chain,  the  axe,  the  wheel, 
And  worst  of  all,  his  own  red  steel. 

I  saw  him  once  before ;  he  rode 

Upon  a  coal-black  steed, 
And  tens  of  thousands  throng'd  the  road 

And  bade  their  warrior  speed. 
His  helm,  his  breastplate,  were  of  gold, 
And  graved  with  many  a  dint  that  told 

Of  many  a  soldier's  deed  ; 
The  sun  shone  on  his  sparkling  mail, 
And  danced  his  snow-plume  on  the  gale. 

But  now  he  stood  chain'd  and  alone, 

The  headsman  by  his  side; 
The  plume,  the  helm,  the  charger,  gone ; 

The  sword,  which  had  defied 
The  mightiest,  lay  broken  near ; 
And  yet  no  sign  or  sound  of  fear 

Came  from  that  lip  of  pride  ; 
And  never  king  or  conqueror's  brow 
Wore  higher  look  than  his  did  now. 

He  bent  beneath  the  headsman's  stroke 

With  an  uncover'd  eye  ; 
A  wild  shout  from  the  numbers  broke 

Who  throng'd  to  see  him  die. 
It  was  a  people's  loud  acclaim, 
The  voice  of  anger  and  of  shame, 

A  nation's  funeral  cry, 
Rome's  wail  above  her  only  son, 
Her  patriot,  and  her  latest  one. 


LETITIA    E.    LANDON. 


397 


I  PRAY  THEE  LET  ME  WEEP  TO-NIGHT. 

I  PRAT  thee  let  me  weep  to-night, 

'Tis  rarejy  I  am  weeping ; 
My  tears  are  buried  in  my  heart, 

Like  cave-lock'd  fountains  sleeping. 

But  oh,  to-night,  those  words  of  thine 
Have  brought  the  past  before  me ; 

And  shadows  of  long-vanish'd  years 
Are  passing  sadly  o'er  me. 

The  friends  I  loved  in  early  youth, 

The  faithless  and  forgetting, 
Whom,  though  they  were  not  worth  my  love, 

I  cannot  help  regretting  ; 

My  feelings,  once  the  kind,  the  warm, 

But  now  the  hard,  the  frozen  ; 
The  errors  I've  too  long  pursued, 

The  path  I  should  have  chosen ; 

The  hopes  that  are  like  falling  lights 

Around  my  pathway  dying; 
The  consciousness  none  others  rise, 

Their  vacant  place  supplying ; 

The  knowledge  by  experience  taught, 

The  useless,  the  repelling ; 
For  what  avails  to  know  how  false 

Is  all  the  charmer's  telling  ? 

I  would  give  worlds,  could  I  believe 

One  half  that  is  profess'd  me ; 
Affection  !  could  I  think  it  thee, 

When  Flattery  has  caress'd  me  ? 

I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  this, 

Oh,  leave  me  to  my  weeping ; 
A  few  tears  for  that  grave,  my  heart, 

Where  hope  in  death  is  sleeping. 

WEAKNESS  ENDS  WITH  LOVE. 

I  SAT  not,  regret  me ; 

You  will  not  regret ; 
You  will  try  to  forget  me, 

You  cannot  forget ; 
We  shall  hear  from  each  other, 

Ah,  misery  to  hear 
Those  names  from  another 

Which  once  were  so  dear  ! 

But  deep  words  shall  sting  thee, 

That  breathe  of  the  past ; 
And  many  things  bring  thee 

Thoughts  fated  to  last; 
The  fond  hopes  that  center'd 

In  thee  are  all  dead, 
The  iron  has  enter'd 

The  soul  where  they  fed. 

Of  the  chain  that  once  bound  me, 

The  memory  is  mine, 
But  my  words  are  around  thee, 

Their  power  is  on  thine ; 
No  hope,  no  repentance, 

My  weakness  is  o'er, 
It  died  with  the  sentence — 

I  love  thee  no  more  ! 


AFFECTION. 

THERE  is  in  life  no  blessing  like  affection : 
It  soothes,  it  hallows,  elevates,  subdues, 
And  bringeth  down  to  earth  its  native  heaven. 
It  sits  beside  the  cradle  patient  hours, 
Whose  sole  contentment  is  lo  watch  and  love; 
It  bendeth  o'er  the  death-bed,  and  conceals 
Its  own  despair  with  words  of  faith  and  hope. 
Life  has  naught  else  that  may  supply  its  place ; 
Void  is  ambition,  cold  is  vanity, 
And  wealth  an  empty  glitter,  without  love. 


AGE  AND  YOUTH. 

"  I'LL  tell  thee,"  said  the  old  man,  "  what  is  life. 
A  gulf  of  troubled  waters — where  the  soul, 
Like  a  vex'd  bark,  is  toss'd  upon  the  waves 
Of  pain  and  pleasure,  by  the  wavering  breath 
Of  passions.     They  are  winds  that  drive  it  on, 
But  only  to  destruction  and  despair. 
Methinks  that  we  have  known  some  former  state 
More  glorious  than  our  present ;  and  the  heart 
Is  haunted  by  dim  memories — shadows  left 
By  past  felicity.     Hence  do  we  pine 
For  vain  aspirings — hopes  that  fill  the  eyes 
With  bitter  tears  for  their  own  vanity. 
Are  we  then  fallen  from  some  lovely  star, 
Whose  consciousness  is  as  an  unknown  curse  ?" 


BITTER  EXPERIENCE. 

How  often,  in  this  cold  and  bitter  world, 
Is  the  warm  heart  thrown  back  upon  itself! 
Cold,  careless,  are  we  of  another's  grief; 
We  wrap  ourselves  in  sullen  selfishness ; 
Harsh-judging,  narrow-minded,  stern  and  chill 
In  measuring  every  action  but  our  own. 
How  small  in  some  men's  motives,  but  how  mean  ! 
There  are  who  never  knew  one  generous  thought; 
Whose  heart-pulse  never  quicken'd  with  the  joy 
Of  kind  endeavour,  or  sweet  sympathy. 
There  are  too  many  such ! 


THE  POET'S  FIRST  ESSAY. 

IT  is  a  fearful  stake  the  poet  casts, 
When  he  comes  forth  from  his  sweet  solitude 
Of  hopes,  and  songs,  and  visionary  things 
To  ask  the  iron  verdict  of  the  world. 
Till  then  his  home  has  been  in  fairyland, 
Shelter'd  in  the  sweet  depths  of  his  own  heart: 
But  the  strong  need  of  praise  impels  him  forth: 
For  never  was  there  poet  but  he  craved 
That  golden  sunshine  of  secure  renown, 
That  sympathy  which  is  the  life  of  fame. 
It  is  full  dearly  bought :  henceforth  he  lives 
Feverish  and  anxious,  in  an  unkind  world, 
That  only  gives  the  laurel  to  the  grave. 
2L 


CHARLES    SWAIN. 


CHARLES  SWAIN  was  born  in  Manchester, 
in  October,  1803.  In  his  fourteenth  year  he 
was  apprenticed  to  a  dyer,  but  he  is  now,  I 
believe,  an  engraver  and  lithographer,  in  his 
native  city.  When  about  twenty  years  of  age, 
he  made  his  first  appearance  as  a  writer  in  the 
Manchester  Iris,  then  edited  by  JAMES  MONT- 
GOMERY. In  1827  he  published  his  contribu- 
tions to  this  and  other  periodicals,  under  the 
title  of  Metrical  Essays  on  Subjects  of  History 
and  Imagination.  In  1841  he  printed,  in  a 
beautiful  volume,  illustrated  in  the  style  of 
ROGERS'S  Italy,  The  Mind  and  other  Poems, 


THE  LYRE. 

A  SOUND  came  floating  by, 
O'er  the  still  beauty  of  the  moonlight  air  ; 

Soft  as  a  spirit's  sigh, 
Soothing  the  death-couch  of  the  young  and  fair. 

A  sound  came  floating  free, 
A  wild,  and  low,  and  melancholy  sound ; 

A  wandering  harmony, 
Haunting  the  slumber  of  the  woods  around. 

"Whence  art  thou?"  murmur'd  I — 
«  Lone  visitant  of  this  deserted  shrine, 

Whence  art  thou?— speak,  reply ; 
Answer,  thou  voice,  this  troubled  heart  of  mine !" 

«  Ere  yet  the  shadowy  woods 
Waved  their  green  honours  to  the  breath  of  morn  ; 

Ere  yet  the  solitudes 
Echo'd  the  song  of  thunders — I  was  born  ! 

«  My  voice  was  known  and  heard, 
When  Paradise  grew  glorious  with  the  light 

Of  angels  ! — and  the  Word 
Spake  'midst  the  stars  of  first  created  night ! 

«  My  voice  was  felt,  when  first 
The  gathering  murmur  of  the  deluge  woke ! 

When,  like  creation's  burst, 
Proud  forests  fell — and  giant  mountains  broke ! 

»  Mine  was  the  breath  that  drew 
The  patriot  forth  to  guard  his  native  shore ; 

When  lances  wildly  flew — 
And  cities  trembled  to  the  cannon's  roar ! 

«  Upon  my  wings  the  prayer 
Ot  countless  millions  sought  the  Saviour's  throne : 

My  power  is  everywhere — 
In  every  heart — in  every  language  known ! 

398 


embracing  all  he  had  written  which  he  deemed 
worthy  of  preservation.  The  Mind  is  his 
longest  and  most  finished  production. 

SOUTHEY  said  of  SWAIN,  that  "  if  ever  man 
was  born  a  poet,  he  was;"  and  he  merited 
the  praise  far  better  than  many  others  the 
encomiums  which  the  laureate  so  liberally 
bestowed.  He  has  earnestness,  tenderness, 
and  a  refined  taste.  He  addresses  himself  to 
the  heart  and  the  imagination,  in  poems  re- 
markable for  their  sincerity  and  simplicity, 
which  are  as  melodious  as  MOORE'S  and  as  pure 
as  COWPER'S. 


«  Still  askest  thou  what  am  11— 
Go,  ask  the  bard  whose  visions  I  inspire : 

And,  oh  !  he  will  reply, 
The  lyre — the  lyre — the  soul-exalting  lyre  !" 


THE  KIND  OLD  FRIENDLY  FEELINGS. 

THE  kind  old  friendly  feelings  ! 

We  have  their  spirit  yet — 
Tho'  years  and  years  have  pass'd,  old  friend, 

Since  thou  and  I  last  met ! 
And  something  of  gray  Time's  advance 

Speaks  in  thy  fading  eye ; 
Yet  'tis  the  same  good,  honest  glance 

I  loved  in  times  gone  by  ! 
Ere  the  kind  old  friendly  feelings 

Had  ever  brought  one  sigh  ! 

The  warm  old  friendly  feelings  ! 

Ah,  who  need  yet  be  told, 
No  other  links  can  bind  the  heart 

Like  those  loved  links  of  old  ! 
Thy  hand  I  joy'd  in  youth  to  clasp 

The  touch  of  age  may  show  ; 
Yet,  '  tis  the  same  true,  hearty  grasp 

I  loved  so  long  ago  ! 
Ere  the  last  old  friendly  feelings 

Had  taught  one  tear  to  flow  ! 

The  kind  old  friendly  feelings  ! 

Oh,  seem  they  e'er  less  dear 
Because  some  recollections 

May  meet  us  with  a  tear  1 
Though  hopes  we  shared, — the  early  beams 

Ambition  show'd  our  way, — 
Have  fled,  dear  friend,  like  morning  dreams 

Before  truth's  searching  ray  ; — 
Still  we  've  kept  the  kind  old  feelings 

That  bless'd  our  youthful  day  ! 


CHARLES    SWAIN. 


399 


RECOLLECTIONS. 

ONE  I  knew 

Whose  semblance  painter's  pencil  never  drew  ; 
Droop,  fall ! — as  from  the  rose  fades  soft  the  dew. 

Dying  in  tints  of  beauty — leaf  by  leaf ! 
'Twas  whisper'd  love  first  call'd  the  canker  there ; 
But  if  she  grieved,  none  ever  saw  her  grief, 
The  thought  were  torture :  should  a  breath  declare 
That  unkind  love  had  left  her  cheek  less  fair ! 
And  thus  she  fed  on  hope,  who  said  away 
From  scenes  too  dear ;  that  'neath  a  foreign  air 
No  more  the  worm  within  her  breast  should  prey  ; 
No  more  her  spirit  faint,  her  little  strength  decay  ! 

Love  1     I  will  tell  thee  what  it  is  to  love  ! 
It  is  to  build  with  human  thoughts  a  shrine, 
Where  hope  sits  brooding  like  a  beauteous  dove  ; 
Where  time  seems  young — and  life  a  thing  divine. 
All  tastes,  all  pleasures,  all  desires  combine 
To  consecrate  this  sanctuary  of  bliss. 
Above,  the  stars  in  shroudless  beauty  shine; 
Around,  the  streams  their  flowery  margins  kiss : 
And  if  there's  heaven  on  earth,  that  heaven  is 
surely  this. 

Yes,  this  is  love — the  steadfast  and  the  true ; 
The  immortal  glory  which  hath  never  set; 
The  best,  the  brightest  boon  the  heart  e'er  knew ; 
Of  all  life's  sweets  the  very  sweetest  yet ! 
O,  who  can  but  recall  the  eve  they  met,      [vow, 
To  breathe  in  some  green  walk  their  first  young 
While  summer  flowers  with  eveningdews  were  wet 
And  winds  sigh'd  soft  around  the  mountain's  brow. 
And  all  was  rapture  then,  which  is  but  memory  now. 

Hers  was  a  form  to  dream  of — slight  and  frail ; 
As  though  too  delicate  for  earth — too  fair 
To  meet  the  worldly  conflicts  which  assail 
Nature's  unhappy  footsteps  everywhere  ! 
There  was  a  languor  in  her  pensive  air, 
A  tone  of  suffering  in  her  accents  weak, 
The  hectic  signet,  never  known  to  spare, 
Darken'd  the  beauty  of  her  thoughtful  cheek, 
And  omen'd  fate  more  sad  than  even  tears  might 


The  angel-rapt  expression  of  her  eye — 
The  hair  descending,  like  a  golden  wing, 
Adown  her  shoulders'  faded  symmetry ; 
Her  moveless  lip,  so  pined  and  perishing, — 
The  shadow  of  itself ; — its  rose-like  spring 
Blanch'd  ere  its  time;  for  morn  no  balm  might  wake; 
Nor  youth  with  all  its  hope,  nepenthe  bring ! 
She  look'd  like  one  whose  heart  was  born  to  break  ; 
A  face  on  which  to  gaze  made  every  feeling  ache  ! 

The  peasant,  hastening  to  the  vine-ripe  fields, 
Oft  turn'd  with  pity  towards  the  stranger  maid, 
Whose  faltering  steps  approach'd  yon  mount, 

which  yields 

A  view  from  shore  to  farthest  sea  display'd  ; 
And  there,  till  setting  day,  the  maiden  stray'd ; 
Watching  each  sail,  if  haply  she  might  find 
The  distant  ship  which  her  dear  friends  convey'd  ; 
And  still  hope  gave  her  wings  to  every  wind, 
And  whisper'd,  "  See,  they  come  !"  till  ached  her 

wearied  mind. 


FORGIVE  AND  FORGET. 

FORGIVE  and  forget!  why  the  world  would  be  lonely, 

The  garden  a  wilderness  left  to  deform  ; 
If  the  flowers  but  remember'd  thechilling  windsonly, 

And  thefieldsgave  no  verdure  for  fear  of  the  storm! 
Oh,  still  in  thy  loveliness  emblem  the  flower, 

Give  the  fragrance  of  feeling  to  sweeten  life's  way; 
And  prolong  not  again  the  brief  cloud  of  an  hour, 

With  tears  that  but  darken  the  rest  of  the  day  ! 

Forgive  and  forget !  there 's  no  breast  so  unfeeling 

But  some  gentle  thoughts  of  affection  there  live ; 
And  the  best  of  us  all  require  something  concealing, 

Some  heart  that  with  smiles  can  forget  and  forgive! 
Then  away  with  the  cloud  from  those  beautiful  eyes, 

That  brow  was  no  home  for  such  frowns  to  have 

met; 
Oh,  how  could  our  spirits  e'er  hope  for  the  skies, 

If  Heaven  refused  to  Forgive  and  Forget. 


LET  US  LOVE  ONE  ANOTHER. 

LET  us  love  one  another, — 

Not  long  may  we  stay  ; 
In  this  bleak  world  of  mourning 

Some  droop  while  'tis  day, 
Others  fade  in  their  noon, 

And  few  linger  till  eve: 
Oh  !  there  breaks  not  a  heart 

But  leaves  some  one  to  grieve; 
And  the  fondest,  the  purest, 

The  truest  that  met, 
Have  still  found  the  need 

To  forgive  and  forget ! 
Then,  ah!  though  the  hopes 

That  we  nourish'd  decay, 
Let  us  love  one  another 

As  long  as  we  stay. 

There  are  hearts,  like  the  ivy, 

Though  all  be  decay'd 
That  it  seem'd  to  clasp  fondly 

In  sunlight  and  shade; 
No  leaves  droop  in  sadness, 

Still  gayly  they  spread, 
Undimm'd  midst  the  blighted, 

The  lonely,  and  dead  : 
But  the  mistletoe  clings 

To  the  oak,  not  in  part, 
But  with  leaves  closely  round  it — 

The  root  in  its  heart ; 
Exists  but  to  twine  it, — 

Imbibe  the  same  dew, — 
Or  to  fall  with  its  loved  oak, 

And  perish  there  too. 

Thus,  let's  love  one  another 

Midst  sorrows  the  worst, 
Unalter'd  and  fond, 

As  we  loved  at  the  first ; 
Though  the  false  wing  of  pleasure 

May  change  and  forsake, 
And  the  bright  urn  of  wealth 

Into  particles  break, 


400 


CHARLES    SWAIN. 


There  are  some  sweet  affections 

That  wealth  cannot  buy, 
That  cling  but  still  closer 

When  sorrow  draws  nigh 
And  remain  with  us  yet, 

Though  all  else  pass  away ; 
Thus,  let's  love  one  another 

As  long  as  we  stay. 


IF  THOU  HAST  LOST  A  FRIEND. 

IF  thou  hast  lost  a  friend, 

By  hard  or  hasty  word, 
Go, — call  him  to  thy  heart  again ; 

Let  pride  no  more  be  heard. 
Remind  him  of  those  happy  days, 

Too  beautiful  to  last ; 
Ask,  if  a  word  should  cancel  years 

Of  truth  and  friendship  past  1 
Oh  !  if  thou'st  lost  a  friend, 

By  hard  or  hasty  word, 
Go, — call  him  to  thy  heart  again ; 

Let  pride  no  more  be  heard. 

Oh !  tell  him,  from  thy  thought 

The  light  of  joy  hath  fled  ; 
That,  in  thy  sad  and  silent  breast, 

Thy  lonely  heart  seems  dead ; 
That  mount  and  vale, — each  path  ye  trod, 

By  morn  or  evening  dim, — 
Reproach  you  with  their  frowning  gaze, 

And  ask  your  soul  for  him. 
Then,  if  thou'st  lost  a  friend, 

By  hard  or  hasty  word, 
Go, — call  him  to  thy  heart  again ; 

Let  pride  no  more  be  heard. 


THE  FIRST  PRAYER. 

TELL  me,  O  ye  stars  of  night — 

In  the  ages  ye  have  seen, 
Aught  more  gentle,  mild,  and  bright, 
Aught  more  dear  to  angels'  sight, 

Hath  there  been ; 
Or  more  innocent  and  fair, 
Than  an  infant's  earliest  prayer  1 

Tell  me,  0  ye  flowers  that  meet 

By  the  valley  or  the  stream, 
Have  ye  incense  half  so  sweet, — 
Fragrance  in  your  rich  retreat, — 

That  ye  deem 

Half  so  dear  to  Heaven's  care, 
As  an  infant's  quiet  prayer '! 

Speak,  and  tell  me,  thou,  O  Time, 
From  the  coming  of  the  Word, 
Aught  more  holy,  more  sublime, 
From  the  heart  of  any  clime, 

Hast  thou  heard, 
Than  the  voice  ascending  there, 
Than  that  lowly  infant's  prayer  1 


THE   CHAMOIS   HUNTERS. 

AWAY  to  the  Alps  ! 

For  the  hunters  are  there, 
To  rouse  the  chamois 

In  his  rock-vaulted  lair. 
From  valley  to  mountain, 

See  ! — swiftly  they  go — 
As  the  ball  from  the  rifle — 

The  shaft  from  the  bow. 
Nor  chasms,  nor  glaciers, 

Their  firmness  dismay  ; 
Undaunted,  they  leap 

Like  young  leopards  at  play  ; 
And  the  dash  of  the  torrent 

Sounds  welcome  and  dear, 
As  the  voice  of  a  friend 

To  the  wanderer's  ear. 

They  reck  not  the  music 

Of  hound  or  of  horn, 
The  neigh  of  the  courser, 

The  gladness  of  morn. 
The  blasts  of  the  tempest 

Their  dark  sinews  brace ; 
And  the  wilder  the  danger, 

The  sweeter  the  chase. 
With  spirits  as  strong 

As  their  footsteps  are  light, 
On — onward  they  speed, 

In  the  joy  of  their  might : 
Till  eve  gathers  round  them, 

And  silent  and  deep — 
The  bleak  snow  their  pillow — 

The  wild  hunters  sleep. 


THE  BIRD  OF  HOPE. 

A  GOLDEJT  cage  of  sunbeams 

Half  down  a  rainbow  hung; 
And  sweet  therein  a  golden  bird 

The  whole  bright  morning  sung  ! — 
The  winged  shapes  around  it  grew 

Enchanted  as  they  heard  : 
It  was  the  bird  of  Hope — my  love — 

It  was  Hope's  golden  bird ! 

And  ever  of  to-morrow 

The  syren  song  began  ! — 
Ah,  what  on  earth 's  so  musical 

As  love  and  hope  to  man  1 — 
I  listen'd,  thinking  still  of  thee, 

And  of  thy  promised  word  : 
It  was  the  bird  of  Hope — sweet  love — 

It  was  Hope's  golden  bird  ! 

Though  ours  should  be  a  cottage  home, 

From  pride  and  pomp  apart ; 
The  truest  wealth  for  happiness 

Is  still  a  faithful  heart. 
And  thus  it  sung — "unloving  wealth 

Would  never  be  preferred  /" — 
It  was  the  bird  of  Hope — sweet  love — 

It  was  Hope's  golden  bird  ! 


SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON. 


EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER,  now  Sir  EDWARD 
BULWER  LYTTON,  is  the  youngest  son  of  Gene- 
ral BULWER  of  Heydon  Hall,  Norfolk,  and 
ELIZABETH,  daughter  of  HENRY  W.  LYTTON, 
Esquire,  Herts.  He  was  horn  in  1803,  and 
his  father  dying  during  his  infancy,  the  care 
of  his  youth  devolved  upon  his  mother,  who 
sent  him  to  Cambridge  to  complete  his  edu- 
cation. His  first  appearance  as  an  author  was 
in  1826,  when  be  published  a  volume  of  verses 
entitled  Weeds  and  Wild  Flowers,  including 
a  Poem  on  Sculpture  which  obtained  the  chan- 
cellor's medal  at  the  Cambridge  commence- 
ment in  1825.  In  the  following  year  ap- 
peared O'Neil  or  the  Rebel  and  other  Poems, 
and  his  first  prose  work,  Falkland.  Neither 
of  these  books  attracted  much  attention,  but 
Pelham,  which  was  printed  in  1828,  placed 
him  in  the  front  rank  of  living  novelists.  It 
was  rapidly  followed  by  The  Disowned,  De- 
vereux,  Paul  Clifford,  Eugene  Aram,  The 
Student,  England  and  the  English,  Athens, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine,  The  Last  Days 
of  Pompeii,  Rienzi,  Ernest  Maltravers,  Alice, 
Night  and  Morning,  Zanoni,  The  Last  of  the 
Barons,  and  three  or  four  volumes  of  critical 
and  miscellaneous  articles,  originally  pub- 
in  The  New  Monthly  Magazine  and  The 
Monthly  Chronicle  while  he  was  editor  of 
those  periodicals.  These,  with  a  few  politi- 
cal tracts,  constitute,  I  believe,  all  his  ac- 
knowledged works  in  prose. 

Besides  his  poems  already  mentioned,  and 
his  dramas,  Sir  BULWER  LYTTON  has  written 
The  Siamese  Twins,  Ismael  an  Oriental  Tale, 
Leila  or  the  Siege  of  Grenada,  Historical 
Odes,  The  Ill-omened  Marriage,  Eva  and 
other  Tales  and  Poems,  and  a  Translation  of 
the  Poems  and  Ballads  of  Schiller,  the  last 
of  which  appeared  in  the  spring  of  1844.  His 
dramatic  writings  are  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  The 
Duchess  de  la  Valliere,  Richelieu,  The  Sea 
Captain,  Money,  and  Cromwell,  all  of  which 
but  the  last  have  been  acted  successfully  in 
the  British  and  American  theatres. 

Sir  BULWER  LYTTON  and  JAMES  SHERIDAN 
KNOWLES,  though  not  the -best,  are  the  most 
popular  dramatic  poets  of  the  age.  Both  have 


produced  fine  acting  plays  and  clever  analyses 
of  character;  and  in  the  works  of  both  may 
be  found  isolated  passages  of  genuine  poetry. 
KNOWLES  has  the  deepest  feeling  and  purest 
sentiment;  LYTTON  the  most  sparkling  wit 
and  most  poetical  expression.  Altogether 
they  are  nearly  equal  in  merit  as  in  success. 

Sir  BULWER  LYTTON  is  the  greatest  of  liv- 
ing English  novelists,  and  it  is  probable  that 
he  will  always  be  ranked  among  the  classic 
writers  of  his  country.  In  the  Lady  of  Lyons 
he  well  expresses  his  cardinal  maxim,  "There 
is  a  future  left  to  all  men  who  have  the  virtue 
to  repent  and  the  energy  to  atone."  It  had 
been  well  if  in  many  instances  he  had  illus- 
trated this  beneficent  idea  by  better  examples. 
The  general  tendency  of  his  works  is  immoral, 
and  they  are  nearly  all  imbued  with  a  sickly 
and  shallow  philosophy.  He  has  no  faith  in 
humanity.  He  breaks  down  the  barriers  be- 
tween right  and  wrong.  By  presenting  vice 
divested  of  its  grossness  he  renders  it  attract- 
ive. Instead  of  holding  up  virtue  as  the  only 
source  of  felicity,  he  makes  his  criminals 
happy  men,  and  challenges  for  them  in  every 
condition  our  admiration. 

The  novels  in  which  he  has  shown  most 
originality  and  power  are  Eugene  Aram,  The 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  Night  and  Morning, 
Ernest  Maltravers,  Zanoni,  and  Paul  Clifford, 
the  last  of  which  is  among  the  most  depraving 
books  produced  in  this  age.  Athens,  its  Rise 
and  Fall,  is  a  work  in  which  he  has  exhibited 
more  scholarship  and  perhaps  a  higher  order 
of  talent  than  in  any  thing  else.  A  sequel  to 
the  two  volumes  already  published  is  to  fol- 
low, comprising  a  history  of  Athenian  philo- 
sophy, manners,  and  customs. 

He  has  added  very  little  to  his  reputation 
by  any  of  his  poetical  writings  except  his 
dramas.  Some  of  his  shorter  pieces,  how- 
ever, have  simplicity  and  epigrammatic  point. 

BULWER  entered  the  House  of  Commons  at 
an  early  age,  and  has  been  a  liberal  and  con- 
sistent politician.  He  was  made  a  baronet 
under  the  Melbourne  administration,  and  as- 
sumed the  name  of  LYTTON  on  the  death  of 
a  relative  in  1844. 


2L2 


401 


402 


SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON. 


CROMWELL'S  SOLILOQUY  OVER  THE 
DEAD  BODY  OF  CHARLES. 

CHARLES  sleeps,  and  feels  no  more  the  grinding 

cares, 

The  perils  and  the  doubts,  that  wait  on  POWER. 
For  him  no  more  the  uneasy  day, — the  night 
At  war  with  sleep !  for  him  are  hush'd  at  last 
Loud  Hate  and  hollow  Love.     Reverse  thy  law, 
O  blind  Compassion  of  the  human  heart!       [not, 
And  let  not  Death,  which  feels  not,  sins  not,  weeps 
Rob  Life  of  all  that  Suffering  asks  from  Pity. — 

Lo !  what  a  slender  barrier  parts  in  twain 
The  presence  of  the  breathing  and  the  dead, 
The  vanquisher  and  victim ;  the  firm  foot 
Of  lusty  strength,  and  the  unmoving  mass 
Of  that  all  strength  must  come  to.     Yet  once  more, 
Ere  the  grave  closes  on  that  solemn  dust, 
Will  I  survey  what  men  have  fear'd  to  look  on. 

[He  draws  aside  the  curtains — the  coffin  of  the  King 

lighted  by  tapers — Cromwell  lifts  the  pall.] 
'Tis  a  firm  frame;  the  sinews  strongly  knit, 
The  chest  deep-set  and  broad  ;  save  some  gray  hairs 
Saddening  those  locks  of  love,  no  sign  of  age  ! 
Had  nature  been  his  executioner, 
He  would  have  outlived  me  .'     And  to  this  end — 
This  narrow  empire — this  unpeopled  kingdom — 
This  six  feet  realm — the  over  lust  of  sway      [will 
Hfith  been  the  guide  !    He  would  have  stretch'd  his 
O'er  that  unlimited  world  which  men's  souls  are ! 
Fetter'd  the  earth's  pure  air — for  Freedom  is 
That  air  to  honest  lips ; — and  here  he  lies, 
In  dust  most  eloquent — to  after-time 
A  never  silent  oracle  for  Kings  ! — 
Was  this  the  hand  that  strain'd  within  its  grasp 
So  haught  a  sceptre  ? — this  the  shape  that  wore 
Majesty  like  a  garment  1     Spurn  that  clay, 
It  can  resent  not:  speak  of  royal  crimes, 
And  it  can  frown  not:  schemeless  lies  the  brain 
Whose  thoughts  were  sources  of  such  fearful  deeds. 
What  things  are  we,  O  Lord,  when  at  thy  will 
A  worm  like  this  could  shake  the  mighty  world ! 
A  few  years  since,  and  in  the  port  was  moor'd 
A  bark  to  far  Columbia's  forests  bound ; 
And  I  was  one  of  those  indignant  hearts    • 
Panting  for  exile  in  the  thirst  of  freedom ; 
Then,  that  pale  clay  (poor  clay  that  was  a  King!) 
Forbade  my  parting,  in  the  wanton  pride 
Of  vain  command,  and  with  a  fated  sceptre 
Waved  back  the  shadow  of  the  death  to  come. 
Here  stands  that  baffled  and  forbidden  wanderer, 
Loftiest  amid  the  -wrecks  of  ruin'd  empire, 
Beside  the  coffin  of  a  headless  King  ! 
He  thrall'd  my  fate — I  have  prepared  his  doom: 
He  made  me  captive — lo  !  his  narrow  cell ! 

[Advancing  to  the  front  of  the  stage.] 
So  hands  unseen  do  fashion  forth  the  earth 
Of  our  frail  schemes  into  our  funeral  urns  ; 
So  walking,  dream-led  in  life's  sleep,  our  steps 
Move  uiindfold  to  the  scaffold,  or  the  throne  ! — 
Ay,  to  the  THRONE!   From  that  dark  thought  I  strike 
The  light  which  cheers  me  onward  to  my  goal. 
Wild  though  the  night,  and  angry  though  the  winds, 
High  o'er  the  billows  of  the  battling  sea 
My  spirit,  like  a  bark,  sweeps  on  to  fortune ! 


CROMWELL'S   REFLECTIONS    ON 
"KILLING  NO  MURDER." 

SOME  devil  wrote  this  book!  the  words  are  daggers. 
Lawful  to  slay  me  !    Slaughter  proved  a  virtue  ! 
Writ  in  cold  blood  ;  the  logic  of  the  butcher  ; 
So  calm,  and  yet  so  deadly  !  I'll  no  more  of  it ! — 
[Advances  to  the  front  of  the  stage  with  the  booh  in  his  hand.] 
"  KILLING  NO  MURDER  !"  so  this  book  is  call'd  ; 
It  summons  that  great  England  whom  this  hand 
Hath  made  the  crown  of  nations,  to  destroy  me ! 
"  At  board,  at  bed," — so  runs  the  text, — "  let  Death 
Be  at  his  side ;  albeit  to  the  clouds 
Reaches  his  head,  the  axe  is  at  his  root ;    [well?'  " 
And  men  shall  cry,  'Where  now  the  lofty  Crom- 
Vain  threats,  I  scorn  ye !     Yet  'tis  ably  writ; 
And  these  few  leaves  will  stir  a  storm  of  passion 
In  the  deep  ocean  of  the  popular  heart. 
We  men  of  deeds  are  idiots,  to  despise 
The  men  of  books — for  books  are  still  the  spells 
Of  the  earth's  sorcery,  and  can  shape  an  army 
Out  of  the  empty  air.      Words  father  actions, 
And  are  the  fruitful  yet  mysterious  soil     [harvest, 
Whence  things  bud  forth,  grow  ripe,  and  burst  to 
And  when  they  rot  away,  'tis  words  receive 
The  germs  they  leave  us,  and  so  reproduce 
Life  out  of  Death — the  everlasting  cycle  ! 
The  Past  but  lives  in  words  !     A  thousand  ages 
Were  blank  if  books  had  not  evoked  their  ghosts, 
And  kept  the  pale  unbodied  shades  to  warn  us 
From  fleshless  lips.     So  what  will  Cromwell  be 
To  times  unborn,  but  some  dim  abstract  thought 
That  would  not  be  if  books  were  not  1     Our  toil — 
Our  glory — struggles — life,  that  sea  of  action, 
Whose  waves  are  stormy  deeds — all  come  to  this, 
A  thing  for  scholars,  in  a  silent  closet, 
To  case  in  periods,  and  embalm  in  ink  : 
Making  the  memory  of  earth-trampling  men, 
The  poor  dependant  on  a  pedant's  whim  ! 
It  is  enough  to  make  us  laugh  to  scorn 
Our  solemn  selves  !     But  Fate  whirls  on  the  bark, 
And  the  rough  gale  sweeps  from  the  rising  tide 
The  lazy  calm  of  thought. 

[After  a  pause,  again  opens  the  book.]     Can  I  believe 
These  lines,  and  doubt  all  faith  for  evermore  ? 
"  My  muster-roll — my  guards — my  palace  train" — 
It  saith,  "  contain  the  names  of  freemen  sworn 
To  slay  the  tyrant!"  I  appeal  from  man, 
To  thee,  the  Lord  of  Hosts !     Out,  damned  thing ! 

[Flings  away  the  book.] 

Thou  hast  taught  me  one  deep  lesson,  and  I  thank 
Power  must  be  guarded  by  the  fiery  sword;   [thee: 
Death  shall  be  at  my  side — sure  death  to  all 
Whose  treason  stings  existence  to  a  curse. 
I've  been  too  merciful — too  soft  of  soul — 
Till  bad  men,  drunk  and  sated  with  forgiveness, 
Grow  mad  with  crime.     The  gibbet  and  the  axe 
Shall  henceforth  guard  the  sceptre  and  the  orb; 
And  Law  put  on  the  majesty  of  Terror. 
Why  what  a  state  is  this,  when  men  who  toil 
Daily  for  England  cannot  sleep  of  nights! 
Three  nights  I  have  not  slept !     I  know  my  cure ; 
The  blood  of  traitors  makes  my  anodyne  ! 
And  in  the  silence  of  a  trembling  world, 
I  will  lie  down,  and  learn  to  sleep  again. 


SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON. 


403 


RICHELIEU'S    SOLILOQUY. 

"  Ix  silence  and  at  night,  the  conscience  feels 
That  life  should  soar  to  nobler  ends  than  power." 
So  sayest  thou,  sage  and  sober  moralist ! 
But  wert  thou  tried]     Sublime  philosophy, 
Thou  art  the  patriarch's  ladder,  reaching  heaven, 
And  bright  with  beck'ning  angels;  but,  alas! 
We  see  thee,  like  the  patriarch,  but  in  dreams, 
By  the  first  step,  dull-slumbering  on  the  earth. 
I  am  not  happy  !  with  the  Titan's  lust 
I  woo'd  a  goddess,  and  I  clasp  a  cloud. 
When  I  am  dust,  my  name  shall,  like  a  star, 
Shine  through  wan  space,  a  glory ;  and  a  prophet 
Whereby  pale  seers  shall  from  their  aery  towers 
Con  all  the  ominous  signs,  benign  or  evil, 
That  make  the  potent  astrologue  of  kings. 
But  shall  the  future  judge  me  by  the  ends 
That  I  have  wrought;  or  by  the  dubious  means 
Through  which  the  stream  of  my  renown  hath  run 
Into  the  many-voiced,  unfathomed  Time  ] 
Foul  in  its  bed  lie  weeds  and  heaps  of  slime ; 
And  with  its  waves  when  sparkling  in  the  sun, 
Ofttimes  the  secret  of  rivulets  that  swell 
Its  might  of  waters,  blend  the  hues  of  blood. 
Yet  are  my  sins  not  those  of  CIRCUMSTANCE, 
That  all-pervading  atmosphere,  wherein 
Our  spirits,  like  the  unsteady  lizard,  take 
The  tints  that  colour  and  the  food  that  nurtures  1 
Oh  !  ye,  whose  hour-glass  shifts  its  tranquil  sands 
In  the  unvex'd  silence  of  a  student's  cell; 
Ye,  whose  untempted  hearts  have  never  toss'd 
Upon  the  dark  and  stormy  tides  where  life 
Gives  battle  to  the  elements ;  and  man        [weight 
Wrestles  with  man  for  some  slight  plank,  whose 
Will  bear  but  one,  while  round  the  desperate  wretch 
The  hungry  billows  roar,  and  the  fierce  Fate, 
Like  some  huge  monster,  dim-seen  through  the  surf, 
Waits  him  who  drops ;  ye  safe  and  formal  men, 
Who  write  the. deeds,  and  with  unfeverish  hand 
Weigh  in  nice  scales  the  motives  of  the  great, 
Ye  cannot  know  what  ye  have  never  tried  ! 
History  preserves  only  the  fleshless  bones 
Of  what  we  are;  and  by  the  mocking  skull 
The  would-be  wise  pretend  to  guess  the  features  ! 
Without  the  roundness  and  the  glow  of  life, 
How  hideous  is  the  skeleton  !     Without 
The  colourings  and  humanities  that  clothe 
Our  errors,  the  anatomists  of  schools 
Can  make  our  memory  hideous  !     I  have  wrought 
Great  uses  out  of  evil  tools  ;  and  they 
In  the  time  to  come  may  bask  beneath  the  light 
Which  I  have  stolen  from  the  angry  gods, 
And  warn  their  sons  against  the  glorious  theft, 
Forgetful  of  the  darkness  which  it  broke. 
I  have  shed  blood,  but  I  have  had  no  foes 
Save  those  the  state  had ;  if  my  wrath  was  deadly, 
'Tis  that  I  felt  my  country  in  my  veins, 
And  smote  her  sons  as  Brutus  smote  his  own. 
And  yet  I  am  not  happy  ;  blanch'd  and  sear'd 
Before  my  time ;  breathing  an  air  of  hate, 
And  seeing  daggers  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
And  wasting  powers  that  shake  the  thrones  of  earth 
In  contest  with  the  insects :  bearding  kings 
And  braved  by  lackeys ;  murder  at  my  bed ; 


And  lone  amid  the  multitudinous  web, 

With  the  dread  three— that  are  the  fates  who  hold 

The  woof  and  shears — the  monk,  the  spy,  the 

headsman. 
And  this  is  power !     Alas  !  I  am  not  happy. 

[After  a  pause.] 

And  yet  the  Nile  is  fretted  by  the  weeds 
Its  rising  roots  not  up ;  but  never  yet 
Did  one  least  barrier  by  a  ripple  vex 
My  onward  tide,  unswept  in  sport  away. 
Am  I  so  ruthless,  then,  that  I  do  hate 
Them  who  hate  me  1     Tush,  tush  !  I  do  not  hate; 
Nay,  I  forgive.     The  statesman  writes  the  doom, 
But  the  priest  sends  the  blessing.    I  forgive  them, 
But  I  destroy ;  forgiveness  is  mine  own, 
Destruction  is  the  state's !     For  private  life, 
Scripture  the  guide;  for  public,  Machiavel. 
Would  fortune  serve  me  if  the  Heaven  were  wroth  1 
For  chance  makes  half  my  greatness.     I  was  born 
Beneath  the  aspect  of  a  bright-eyed  star, 
And  my  triumphant  adamant  of  soul 
Is  but  the  fix'd  persuasion  of  success. 
Ah  !  here !  that  spasm !  again  !    How  life  and  death 
Do  wrestle  for  me  momently  !     And  yet 
The  king  looks  pale.     I  shall  outlive  the  king ! 
And  then  thou  insolent  Austrian,  who  dost  gibe 
At  the  ungainly,  gaunt,  and  daring  lover, 
Sleeking  thy  looks  to  silken  Buckingham, 
Thou  sha.lt — no  matter  !     I  have  outlived  love. 
Oh  beautiful,  all  golden,  gentle  youth  ! 
Making  thy  palace  in  the  careless  front 
And  hopeful  eye  of  man — ere  yet  the  soul 
Hath  lost  the  memories  which  (so  Plato  dream'd) 
Breathed  glory  from  the  earlier  star  it  dwelt  in — 
Oh !  for  one  gale  from  thine  exulting  morning, 
Stirring  amid  the  roses,  where  of  old 
Love  shook  the  dew-drops  from  his  glancing  hair! 
Could  I  recall  the  past,  or  had  not  set 
The  prodigal  treasures  of  the  bankrupt  soul 
In  one  slight  bark  upon  the  shoreless  sea; 
The  yoked  steer,  after  his  day  of  toil, 
Forgets  the  goad,  and  rests :  to  me  alike 
Or  day  or  night :  ambition  has  no  rest ! 
Shall  I  resign  ]  who  can  resign  himself] 
For  custom  is  ourself ;  as  drink  and  food 
Become  our  bone  and  flesh,  the  aliments   [dreams, 
Nurturing  our  nobler  part,  the  mind — thoughts, 
Passions,  and  aims,  in  the  revolving  cycle 
Of  the  great  alchymy,  at  length  are  made 
Our  mind  itself;  and  yet  the  sweets  of  leisure, 
An  honour'd  home,  far  from  these  base  intrigues, 
An  eyrie  on  the  heaven-kiss'd  heights  of  wisdom. 


AMBITION  AND  GLORY. 

AIAS!  our  glories  float  between  the  earth  and  heaven 
Like  clouds  which  seem  pavilions  of  the  sun, 
And  are  the  playthings  of  the  casual  wind ; 
Still,  like  the  cloud  which  drops  on  unseen  crags 
The  dews  the  wild  flower  feeds  on,  our  ambition 
May  from  its  airy  height  drop  gladness  down 
On  unsuspected  virtue ;  and  the  flower 
May  bless  the  cloud  when  it  hath  pass'd  away  ! 


404 


SIR  EDWARD   BULWER    LYTTON. 


LAST  DAYS  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH.* 

RISE  from  thy  bloody  grave, 

Thou  soft  Medusa  of  the  fated  line.-f- 
Whose  evil  beauty  look'd  to  death  the  brave ; 

Discrowned    queen,    around    whose  passionate 

shame 
Terror  and  grief  the  palest  flowers  entwine, 

That  ever  veil'd  the  ruins  of  a  name 

With  the  sweet  parasites  of  song  divine  ! 
Arise,  sad  ghost,  arise, 

And  if  revenge  outlive  the  tomb,  [doom  ! 

Thou  art  avenged.     Behold  the  doomer  brought  to 
Lo,  where  thy  mighty  murdress  lies, 

The  sleepless  couch,  the  sunless  room, 
And,  quell'd  the  eagle  eye  and  lion  mien, 
The  wo-worn  shadow  of  the  Titan  queen ! 

There,  sorrow-stricken,  to  the  ground, 

Alike  by  night  and  day, 
The  heart's  blood  from  the  inward  wound 

Ebbs  silently  away. 
And  oft  she  turns  from  face  to  face 

A  sharp  and  eager  gaze, 
As  if  the  memory  sought  to  trace 
The  sign  of  some  lost  dwelling-place, 

Beloved  in  happier  days  ; 
Ah,  what  the  clew  supplies 

In  the  cold  vigil  of  a  hireling's  eyes ! 

Ah,  sad  in  childless  age  to  weep  alone,    [own! 

And  start  and  gaze,  to  find  no  sorrow  save  our 
Oh  soul,  thou  speedest  to  thy  rest  away, 

But  not  upon  the  pinions  of  the  dove; 
When  death  draws  nigh,  how  miserable  they 

Who  have  outlived  all  love  ! 

As  on  the  solemn  verge  of  night 

Lingers  a  weary  moon. 
She  wanes,  the  last  of  every  glorious  light 

That  bathed  with  splendour  her  majestic  noon: 
The  stately  stars  that,  clustering  o'er  the  isle, 

Lull'd  into  glittering  rest  the  subject  sea ; 
Gone  the  great  masters  of  Italian  wile, 
False  to  the  world  beside,  but  true  to  thee ! 

Burleigh,  the  subtlest  builder  of  thy  fame, 

The  gliding  craft  of  winding  Walsinghame  ; 
They  who  exalted  yet  before  thee  bow'd ; 

And  that  more  dazzling  chivalry,  the  band 

That  made  thy  court  a  faery  land, 

In  which  thou  wert  enshrined  to  reign  alone, 

The  Gloriana  of  the  diamond  throne : 

All  gone,  and  left  thee  sad  amid  the  cloud ! 

To  their  great  sires,  to  whom  thy  youth  was  known, 

Who  from  thy  smile,  as  laurels  from  the  sun, 
Drank  the  immortal  greenness  of  renown, 
Succeeds  the  cold  lip-homage  scantly  won 
From  the  new  race  whose  hearts  already  bear 
The  wise  man's  offerings  to  the  unworthy  heir 
There,  specious  Bacon's  unimpassion'd  brow, 
And  crook-back'd  Cecil's  ever  earthward  eyes 

*  "Her  delight  is  to  sit  in  the  dark,  and  sometimes, 
withsheddingtears.to  bewail  Essex."—  Contemporaneous 
Correspondence. 

t  Mary  Stuart— "The  soft  Medusa"  is  an  expression 
strikingly  applied  to  her  in  her  own  day. 


Watching  the  glass  in  which  the  sands  run  low ; 

But  deem  not  fondly  there 
To  weep  the  fate  or  pour  th'  averting  prayer 
Have  come  those  solemn  spies  ! 
Lo,  at  the  regal  gate 
The  impatient  couriers  wait ; 

To  speed  from  hour  to  hour  the  nice  account 
That  registers  the  grudged  unpitied  sighs 
Which  yet  must  joy  delay,  before 
The  Stuart's  tottering  step  shall  mount 
The  last  great  Tudor's  throne,  red  with  his  mo- 
ther's gore  ! 

Oh  piteous  mockery  of  all  pomp  thou  art, 
Poor  child  of  clay,  worn  out  with  toil  and  years ! 

As,  layer  by  layer,  the  granite  of  the  heart 
Dissolving,  melteth  to  the  weakest  tears 
That  ever  village  maiden  shed  above 
The  grave  that  robb'd  her  quiet  world  of  love. 
Ten  days  and  nights  upon  that  floor 

Those  weary  limbs  have  Iain ; 
And  every  hour  but  added  more 

Of  heaviness  to  pain. 
As  gazing  into  dismal  air 
She  sees  the  headless  phantom  there, 
The  victim  round  whose  image  twined 
The  last  wild  love  of  womankind  ; 
That  love  which,  in  its  dire  excess, 
Will  blast  where  it  can  fail  to  bless, 
And,  like  the  lightning,  flash  and  fade 
In  gloom  along  the  ruins  it  has  made. 
'Twere  sad  to  see  from  those  stern  eyes 

The  unheeded  anguish  feebly  flow ; 
And  hear  the  broken  word  that  dies 

In  moanings  faint  and  low ; 
But  sadder  still  to  mark,  the  while, 
The  vacant  stare,  the  marble  smile, 
And  think,  that  goal  of  glory  won, 

How  slight  a  shade  between 
The  idiot  moping  in  the  sun 
And  England's  giant  queen!* 

Call  back  the  gorgeous  past ! 

Lo,  England  white-robed  for  a  holyday  ! 
While,  choral  to  the  clarion's  kingly  blast, 
Peals  shout  on  shout  along  the  virgin's  way ; 

As  through  the  swarming  streets  rolls  on  the  long 

array. 

Mary  is  dead  !    Look  from  your  fire-won  homes, 
Exulting  martyrs !    on  the  mount  shall  rest 

Truth's  ark  at  last !  the  avenging  Lutheran  comes, 
And  clasps  the  Book  ye  died  for  to  her  breast ! 

With  her  the  flower  of  all  the  land, 
The  high-born  gallants  ride, 

And,  ever  nearest  of  the  band, 

With  watchful  eye  and  ready  hand, 
Young  Dudley's  form  of  pride ! 

Ah,  e'en  in  that  exulting  hour 

Love  half  allures  the  soul  from  power, 

And  blushes  half-suppress'd  betray 
The  woman's  hope  and  fear ; 

Like  blooms  which  in  the  early  May 

Bud  forth  beneath  a  timorous  ray, 

*  "  It  was  after  labouring  for  nearly  three  weeks  under 
a  morbid  melancholy,  which  brought  on  a  stupor  not  un- 
mixed with  some  indications  of  a  disordered  fancy,  that 
the  queen  expired. — Letter  to  Edmund  Lambert. 


SIR  EDWARD  BULWER  LYTTON. 


405 


And  mark  the  mellowing  year, 
While  steals  the  sweetest  of  all  worship,  paid 
Less  to  the  monarch  than  the  maid, 

Melodious  on  the  ear ! 
Call  back  the  gorgeous  past ! 

The  lists  are  set,  the  trumpets  sound, 
Bright  eyes,  sweet  judges,  throned  around; 
And  stately  on  the  glittering  ground 

The  old  chivalric  life  ! 
"  Forward."     The  signal  word  is  given  ; 

Beneath  the  shock  the  greensward  shakes ; 
The  lusty  cheer,  the  gleaming  spear, 
The  snow-plume's  falling  flakes, 

The  fiery  joy  of  strife  ! 
Thus,  when,  from  out  a  changeful  heaven 
O'er  waves  in  eddying  tumult  driven 
A  stormy  smile  is  cast, 
Alike  the  gladsome  anger  takes 
The  sunshine  and  the  blast ! 
Who  is  the  victor  of  the  day  1 
Thou  of  the  delicate  form,  and  golden  hair, 
And  manhood  glorious  in  its  midst  of  May ; 
Thou  who  upon  thy  shield  of  argent  bearest 
The  bold  device,  "  The  loftiest  is  the  fairest !" 
As  bending  low  thy  stainless  crest, 
"  The  vestal  throned  by  the  west" 
Accords  the  old  Provencal  crown 
Which  blends  her  own  with  thy  renown ; 
Arcadian  Sidney,  nursling  of  the  muse, 
Flower  of  fair  chivalry,  whose  bloom  was  fed 
With  daintiest  Castaly's  most  silver  dews, 
Alas !  how  soon  thy  amaranth  leaves  were  shed ; 
Born,  what  the  Ausonian  minstrel  dream'd  to  be 
Time's  knightly  epic  pass'd  from  earth  with  thee! 

Call  back  the  gorgeous  past ! 

Where,  bright  and  broadening  to  the  main, 

Rolls  on  the  scornful  river; 
Stout  hearts  beat  high  on  Tilbury's  plain, 

Our  Marathon  for  ever ! 
No  breeze  above,  but  on  the  mast 
The  pennon  shook  as  with  the  blast. 
Forth  from  the  cloud  the  day-god  strode, 
O'er  bristling  helms  the  splendour  glow'd, 
Leaped  the  loud  joy  from  earth  to  heaven, 
As,  through  the  ranks  asunder  riven, 
The  warrior-woman  rode ! 
Hark,  thrilling  through  the  armed  line 

The  martial  accents  ring, 
"  Though  mine  the  woman's  form,  yet  mine 

The  heart  of  England's  king  !"* 
Wo  to  the  island  and  the  maid  ! 
The  pope  has  preach'd  the  new  crusade, 
His  sons  have  caught  the  fiery  zeal ; 
The  monks  are  merry  in  Castile ; 

Bold  Parma  on  the  main  ;     • 
And  through  the  deep  exulting  swee  ' 

The  thunder-steeds  of  Spain. 
What  meteor  rides  the  sulphurous  gale  1 
The  flames  have  caught  the  giant  sail ! 
Fierce  Drake  is  grappling  prow  to  prow ; 
God  and  St.  George  for  victory  now  ! 

*  "I  know  I  have  but  the  body  of  a  weak  and  feeble 
woman,  but  I  have  the  heart  of  a  kin?,  and  of  a  king  of 
England  too."—  Elizabeth's  harangue  at  Tilbury  Camp. 


Death  in  the  battle  and  the  wind ; 

Carnage  before  and  storm  behind ; 

Wild  shrieks  are  heard  above  the  hurtling  roar 

By  Orkney's  rugged  strands  and  Erin's  ruthless 

shore. 

Joy  to  the  island  and  the  maid  ! 
Pope  Sixtus  wept  the  last  crusade ; 
His  sons  consumed  before  his  zeal, 
The  monks  are  woful  in  Castile ; 

Your  monument  the  main, 
The  glaive  and  gale  record  your  tale, 
Ye  thunder-steeds  of  Spain  ! 

Turn  from  the  gorgeous  past : 
Its  lonely  ghost  thou  art ! 
A  tree,  that,  in  the  world  of  bloom, 
Droops,  spectral  in  its  leafless  gloom, 

Before  the  grinding  blast; 
But  art  thou  fallen  then  so  low  1 
Art  thou  so  desolate  7  wan  shadow,  No  !     [portal, 
Crouch'd,  suppliant  by  the  grave's  unclosing 
Love,  which  proclaims  thee  human,  bids  thee 

know 

A  truth  more  lofty  in  thy  lowliest  hour 
Than  shallowest  glory  taught  to  deafen'd  power, 

"  WHAT'S  HUMAX  is  IMMORTAL  !" 
'Tis  sympathy  which  makes  sublime  ! 
Never  so  reverent  in  thy  noon  of  time 
As  now,  when  o'er  thee  hangs  the  midnight  pall; 
No  comfort,  pomp ;  and  wisdom  no  protection ; 
Hope's  "cloud-capp'd  towers  and  solemn  temples" 

gone — 

Mid  memory's  wrecks,  eternal  and  alone ; 
Type  of  the  woman-deity  AFFECTION  ; 
That  only  Eve  which  never  knew  a  fall, 
Sad  as  the  dove,  but,  like  the  dove,  surviving  all ! 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  THE  EYES. 

THOSE  eyes,  those  eyes,  how  full  of  heaven  they  are, 
When  the  culm  twilight  leaves  the  heaven  most 

holy, 

Tell  me,  sweet  eyes,  from  what  divinest  star 
Did  ye  drink  in  your  liquid  melancholy  1 

Tell  me,  beloved  eyes ! 

Was  it  from  yon  lone  orb,  that  ever  by 

The  quiet  moon,  like  Hope  on  Patience,  hovers, 

The  star  to  which  hath  sped  so  many  a  sigh, 
Since  lutes  in  Lesbos  hallowed  it  to  lovers  1 
Was  that  your  fount,  sweet  eyes  1 

Ye  sibyl  books,  in  which  the  truths  foretold, 

Inspire  the  heart,  your   dreaming  priest,  with 

gladness, 

Bright  alchemists  that  turn  to  thoughts  of  gold 

The  leaden  cares  ye  steal  away  from  sadness, 

Teach  only  me,  sweet  eyes  ! 

Hush !  when  I  ask  ye  how  at  length  to  gain 
The  cell  where  love  the  sleeper  yet  lies  hidden, 

Loose  not  those  arch  lips  from  their  rosy  chain  ; 

Be  every  answer,  save  your  own,  forbidden — 

Feelings  are  words  for  eyes ! 


406 


SIR    EDWARD    BULWER    LYTTON. 


EURIPIDES. 

LOWE,  mid  the  loftier  wonders  of  the  past,      [age ; 
Thou  stand'st — more  household  to  the  modern 
In  a  less  stately  mould  thy  thoughts  were  cast 
Than  thy  twin  masters  of  the  Grecian  stage. 
Thou  mark'st  that  change  in  manners  when  the 
frown 

Of  the  vast  Titans  vanish'd  from  the  earth, 
When  a  more  soft  philosophy  stole  down 

From  the  dark  heavens  to  man's  familiar  hearth. 
With  thee,  came  love  and  woman's  influence  o'er 

Her  sterner  lord ;  and  poesy  till  then 
A  sculpture,  warmed  to  painting ;  what  before 

Glass'd  but  the  dim-seen  gods,  grew  now  to  men 
Clear  mirrors,  and  the  passions  took  their  place, 

Where  a  serene  if  solemn  awe  had  made 
The  scene  a  temple  to  the  elder  race : 

The  struggles  of  humanity  became 
Not  those  of  Titan  with  a  god,  nor  those 

Of  the  great  heart  with  that  unbodied  name 
By  which  our  ignorance  would  explain  our  woes 

And  justify  the  heavens, — the  ruthless  Fate  ; 
But  truer  to  the  human  life,  thine  art        [debate. 

Made  thought  with  thought  and  will  with  will 
And  placed  the  god  and  Titan  in  the  heart; 

Thy  Phoedra,  and  thy  pale  Medea  were 
The  birth  of  that  more  subtle  wisdom,  which 

Dawn'd  in  the  world  with  Socrates,  to  bear 
Its  last  most  precious  offspring  in  the  rich 

And  genial  soul  of  Shakspeare.     And  for  this 
Wit  blamed  the  living,  dullness  taunts  the  dead. 

And  yet  the  Pythian  did  not  speak  amiss 
When  in  thy  verse  the  latent  truths  she  read, 

And  hailed  thee  wiser  than  thy  tribe.     Of  thee 
All  genius  in  our  softer  times  hath  been 

The  grateful  echo,  and  thy  soul  we  see 
Still  through  our  tears — upon  the  later  scene. 
Doth  the  Italian,  for  his  frigid  thought 

Steal  but  a  natural  pathos, — hath  the  Gaul 
Something  of  passion  to  his  phantoms  taught, 

Ope  but  thy  page — and,  lo,  the  source  of  all ! 
But  that  .which  made  thee  wiser  than  the  schools 

Was  the  long  sadness  of  a  much-wrong'd  life ; 
The  sneer  of  satire,  and  the  gibe  of  fools, 

The  broken  hearth-gods,  and  the  perjured  wife. 
For  sorrow  is  the  messenger  between 

The  poet  and  men's  bosoms  : — Genius  can 
Fill  with  unsympathizing  gods  the  scene, 

But  grief  alone  can  teach  us  what  is  man ! 


A    SPENDTHRIFT. 

You  have  outrun  your  fortune ; 
I  blame  you  not,  that  you  would  be  a  beggar; 
Each  to  his  taste!     But  I  do  charge  you,  sir, 
That,  being  beggar'd,  you  would  coin  false  moneys 
Out  of  that  crucible  call'd  DKHT.     To  live 
On  means  not  yours;  be  brave  in  silks  and  laces, 
Gallant  in  steeds,  splendid  in  banquets ;  all 
Not  yours,  ungiven,  uninherited,  unpaid  for ; 
This  is  to  be  a  trickster,  and  to  filch 
Men's  art  and  labour  which  to  them  is  wealth, 
Life,  daily  bread;  quitting  all  scores  with,  «  Friend, 


You're  troublesome  !"    Why  this,  forgive  me, 
Is  what,  when  done  with  a  less  dainty  grace, 
Plain  folks  call  "  Theft  /"  You  owe  eight  thousand 

pistoles, 
Minus  one  crown,  two  liards ! 


PATIENCE   AND  HOPE. 

TJpojf  a  barren  steep, 

Above  a  stormy  deep, 
I  saw  an  angel  watching  the  wild  sea ; 

Earth  was  that  barren  steep, 

Time  was  that  stormy  deep, 
And  the  opposing  shore,  eternity  ! 

"  Why  dost  thou  watch  the  wave  ? 

Thy  feet  the  waters  lave ; 
The  tide  ingulfs  thee  if  thou  dost  delay." 

"  Unscath'd  I  watch  the  wave, 

Time  not  the  angels'  grave, 
I  wait  until  the  ocean  ebbs  away  !" 

Hush'd  on  the  angel's  breast, 

I  saw  an  infant  rest, 
Smiling  upon  the  gloomy  hell  below. 

"  What  is  the  infant  prest, 

O  angel,  to  thy  breast?" 
"  The  child  God  gave  me  in  the  long-ago  ? 

"  Mine  all  upon  the  earth — 

The  angel's  angel-birth, 
Smiling  all  terror  from  the  howling  wild !" 

— Never  may  I  forget 

The  dream  that  haunts  me  yet, 
Of  Patience  nursing  Hope — the  angel  and  the  child! 


LOVE  AND  FAME. 

IT  was  the  May  when  I  was  born, 

Soft  moonlight  through  the  casement  stream'd, 
And  still,  as  it  were  yester-morn, 

I  dream  the  dream  I  dream'd. 
I  saw  two  forms  from  Fairy  Land, 

Along  the  moonbeams  gently  glide, 
Until  they  halted,  hand  in  hand, 

My  infant  couch  beside. 

With  smiles,  the  cradle  bending  o'er, 

I  heard  their  whispered  voices  breathe — 
The  one  a  crown  of  diamond  wore, 

The  one  a  myrtle  wreath  : 
"  Twin  brothers  from  the  better  clime, 

A  poet's  spell  hath  lured  to  thee ; 
Say  which  shall,  in  the  coming  time, 

Thy  chosen  fairy  be  ?" 

I  stretch'd  my  hand,  as  if  my  grasp 

Could  snatch  the  toy  from  either  brow ; 
And  found  a  leaf  within  my  clasp, 

One  leaf — as  fragrant  now  ! 
If  both  in  life  may  not  be  won, 

Be  mine,  at  least,  the  gentler  brother — 
For  he  whose  life  deserves  the  one, 

In  death  may  gain  the  other. 


SIR    EDWARD    BULWUR    LYTTON. 


407 


THE    LAST    CRUSADER. 

LEFT  to  the  Saviour's  conquering  foes, 
The  land  that  girds  the  Saviour's  grave ; 

Where  Godfrey's  crozier-standard  rose, 
He  saw  the  crescent-banner  wave. 

There,  o'er  the  gently-broken  vale, 

The  halo-light  on  Zion  glow'd  ; 
There  Kedron,  with  a  voice  of  wail, 

By  tombs*  of  saints  and  heroes  flow'd  ; 

There  still  the  olives  silver  o'er 

The  dimness  of  the  distant  hill ; 
There  still  the  flowers  that  Sharon  bore, 

Calm  air  with  many  an  odour  fill. 

Slowly  THE  LAST  CRUSADER  eyed 

The  towers,  the  mount,  the  stream,  the  plain, 

And  thought  of  those  whose  blood  had  dyed 
The  earth  with  crimson  streams  in  vain  ! 

He  thought  of  that  sublime  array, 
The  hosts,  that  over  land  and  deep 

The  hermit  marshall'd  on  their  way, 

To  see  those  towers,  and  halt  to  weep  !j- 

Resign'd  the  loved,  familiar  lands, 
O'er  burning  wastes  the  cross  to  bear, 

And  rescue  from  the  Paynim's  hands 
No  empire  save  a  sepulchre  ! 

And  vain  the  hope,  and  vain  the  loss, 
And  vain  the  famine  and  the  strife ; 

In  vain  the  faith  that  bore  the  cross, 
The  valour  prodigal  of  life. 

And  vain  was  Richard's  lion-soul, 

And  guileless  Godfrey's  patient  mind — 

Like  waves  on  shore,  they  reach'd  the  goal, 
To  die,  and  leave  no  trace  behind  ! 

"  O  God  !"  the  last  Crusader  cried, 
"  And  art  thou  careless  of  thine  own  1 

For  us  thy  Son  in  Salem  died. 

And  Salem  is  the  scoffer's  throne  ! 

"And  shall  we  leave,  from  age  to  age, 
To  godless  hands  the  holy  tomb  1 

Against  thy  saints  the  heathen  rage — 

Launch  forth  thy  lightnings,  and  consume !" 

Swift,  as  he  spoke,  before  his  sight 

A  form  flash'd,  white-robed,  from  above; 

All  Heaven  was  in  those  looks  of  light, 
But  Heaven,  whose  native  air  is  love. 

"  Alas  !"  the  solemn  vision  said, 

"  TJiy  God  is  of  the  shield  and  spear — 

To  bless  the  quick  and  raise  the  dead, 
The  Saviour-God  descended  here  ! 

"  Ah  !  know'st  thou  not  the  very  name^ 
Of  Salem  bids  thy  carnage  cease — 

A  symbol  in  itself  to  claim 

God's  people  to  a  house  of  peace ! 

*  The  valley,  .Mioshaphat,  through  which  roiis  the  tor- 
rent of  the  Kodrnn,  is  studded  with  tombs. 

t  See  Tasso,  G*>r.  Lib.  cant.  iii.  si.  vi. 

J  The  signification  of  the  name  "Salom,"  as  written 
by  the  Hebrews,  is  the  Abode,  or  People,  of  Peace. 


"  Ask  not  the  Father  to  reward 

The  hearts  that  seek,  through  blood,  the  Son  ; 
O  warrior !  never  by  the  sword 

The  Saviour's  Holy  Land  is  won  !" 


THE    SABBATH. 


FRESH  glides  the  brook  and  blows  the  gale, 
Yet  yonder  halts  the  quiet  mill ; 

The  whirring  wheel,  the  rushing  sail, 
How  motionless  and  still ! 

Six  days  stern  labour  shuts  the  poor 
From  nature's  careless  banquet-hall ; 

The  seventh  an  Angel  opes  the  door, 
And,  smiling,  welcomes  all ! 

A  Father's  tender  mercy  gave 

This  holy  respite  to  the  breast, 
To  breathe  the  gale,  to  watch  the  wave, 

And  know — the  wheel  may  rest! 

Six  days  of  toil,  poor  child  of  Cain, 

Thy  strength  thy  master's  slave  must  be  ; 

The  seventh,  the  limbs  escape  the  chain — 
A  God  hath  made  thee  free ! 

The  fields  that  yester-morning  knew 
Thy  footsteps  as  their  serf,  survey  ; 

On  thee,  as  them,  descends  the  dew, 
The  baptism  of  the  day. 

Fresh  glides  the  brook  and  blows  the  gale, 
But  yonder  halts  the  quiet  mill ; 

The  whirring  wheel,  the  rushing  sail, 
How  motionless  and  still ! 

So  rest, — O  weary  heart ! — but,  lo, 

The  church-spire,  glistening  up  to  heaven, 

To  warn  thee  where  thy  thoughts  should  go 
The  day  thy  God  hath  given  ! 

Lone  through  the  landscape's  solemn  rest, 
The  spire  its  moral  points  on  high. 

O,  Soul,  at  peace  within  the  breast, 
Rise,  mingling  with  the  sky  ! 

They  tell  thee,  in  their  dreaming  school, 
Of  power  from  old  dominion  hurl'd, 

When  rich  and  poor,  with  juster  rule, 
Shall  share  the  alter'd  world. 

Alas!  since  time  itself  began, 

That  fable  hath  but  fool'd  the  hour ; 

Each  age  that  ripens  power  in  man, 
But  subjects  man  to  power. 

Yet  every  day  in  seven,  at  least, 

One  bright  republic  shall  be  known ; — 

Man's  world  awhile  hath  surely  ceas'd, 
When  God  proclaims  his  own  ! 

Six  days  may  rank  divide  the  poor, 
O  Dives,  from  thy  banquet  hall — 

The  seventh  the  Father  opes  the  door, 
And  holds  his  feast  for  all ! 


HENRY    TAYLOR. 


I  KNOW  nothing  of  the  personal  history  of 
Mr.  TAYLOR,  more  than  that  he  is  the  author 
of  Philip  Van  Artevelde  and  Edwin  the  Fair, 
two  poems,  of  which  the  first  was  published 
in  1834  and  the  last  in  1842. 

Philip  Van  Artevelde  is  founded  on  events 
which  occurred  in  Flanders  near  the  close  of 
the  fourteenth  century.  It  consists  of  two 
plays,  with  the  Lay  of  Elena,  an  interlude, 
and  is  about  as  long  as  six  such  pieces  as  are 
adapted  to  the  stage.  It  is  a  historical  ro- 
mance, in  the  dramatic  and  rhythmical  form, 
in  which  truth  is  preserved,  so  far  as  the  prin- 
cipal action  is  concerned,  with  the  exception 
of  occasional  expansions  and  compressions  of 
time. 

The  ground-work  of  Edwin  the  Fair  is  in 
the  history  of  the  Anglo-Saxons.  On  his  ac- 
cession Edwin  finds  his  kingdom  divided  into 
two  parties,  one  adhering  to  the  monks  and 
the  other  to  the  secular  clergy.  He  imme- 
diately takes  part  against  the  monks,  ejecting 
them  from  the  benefices  they  had  usurped, 
and  prepares  to  ally  himself  with  his  cousin 
Elgiva,  whose  family  is  the  chief  support  of 
the  secular  cause.  His  first  effort  is  to  bring 
about  his  coronation,  notwithstanding  the 
opposition  of  Dunstan,  (the  real  hero  of  the 
poern,)  and  Odo,  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury. In  this  he  succeeds,  and  his  marriage 
with  Elgiva  is  solemnized  at  the  same  time. 
Then  commences  the  earliest  important  war 
of  the  church  against  the  state  in  England. 
Dunstan  causes  the  queen  to  be  seized  and 
imprisoned ;  the  marriage  is  declared  void ; 
and  each  party  appeals  to  arms.  In  the  end 
Edwin  and  Elgiva  are  slain,  and  DUNSTAN  is 
triumphant.  This  play,  in  its  chief  charac- 
teristics, is  like  its  predecessor,  though  less 
interesting,  and  from  the  absence  of  "  poetical 
justice"  in  its  catastrophe,  less  satisfactory. 

Mr.  TAYLOR  contends  that  a  poet  must  be  a 
philosopher;  and  that  no  poetry  of  which 
sense  is  not  the  basis,  though  it  may  be  ex- 
cellent in  its  kind,  will  lonj  be  regarded  as 
poetry  of  the  highest  class.  He  considers 
BYRON  the  greatest  of  the  poets  who  have 

addressed  themselves  to  the  sentient  proper- 

408 


ties  of  the  mind,  but  inferior  to  the  few  who 
have  appealed  to  the  perceptive  faculties.  He 
writes  according  to  his  own  canons,  nearly  all 
of  which  are  as  just  in  respect  to  prose  as  to 
poetry ;  and,  as  might  be  expected,  much  of 
his  verse  has  little  to  distinguish  it  from  prose 
but  its  rhythmical  form. 

Mr.  TAYLOR  seems  to  me  to  excel  nearly 
every  contemporary  poet  as  a  delineator  of 
character.  The  persons  of  his  dramas  are 
presented  distinctly,  and  have  a  perfect  con- 
sistency and  unity.  Nor  are  they  all  of  the 
same  family,  as  is  the  case  with  the  creations 
of  some  writers,  who  appear  under  various 
dresses  and  names  only  to  reproduce  them- 
selves. The  ambitious  and  fanatical  monk, 
the  weak-minded  but  uncorrupted  king,  the 
quiet  scholar  with  his  "tissue  of  illuminnus 
dreams,"  the  clear-sigh  ted  and  resolute  patriot, 
the  unscrupulous  demagogue,  the  brutal  sol- 
dier, the  courtly  cavalier,  are  all  drawn  with 
clearness,  and  without  more  exaggeration  than 
is  necessary  to  the  production  of  a  due  im- 
pression by  any  work  of  art. 

No  educated  person  can  read  the  works  of 
Mr.  TAYLOR  without  a  consciousness  that  he 
is  communing  with  a  mind  of  a  high  order. 
They  are  reflective  and  dignified,  and  are 
written  in  pure  and  nervous  English.  The 
dialogue  is  frequently  terse  and  impressive, 
and  sometimes  highly  dramatic.  Mr.  TAYLOR 
has  no  sickly  sentiment,  and  scarcely  any 
pathos  or  passion;  but  in  his  writings  there 
are  pleasant  shows  of  feeling,  fancy,  and  ima- 
gination which  remind  us  that  he  might  have 
been  a  poet  of  a  different  sort  had  he  been 
governed  by  a  different  theory.  His  principal 
faults,  so  far  as  style  is  concerned,  are  occa- 
sional coarseness  of  expression,  and  inappro- 
priate or  disagreeable  imagery.  He  exhibits 
also  a  want  of  that  delicacy  and  refinement 
of  conduct  and  feeling  in  some  of  his  charac- 
ters which  would  have  resulted  from  a  nicer 
sense  of  the  beautiful  and  a  more  loving  spirit 
in  himself. 

Mr.  TAYLOR  will  not  perhaps  be  a  popular 
poet,  but  with  a  "fit  audience,  though  few," 
he  will  always  be  a  favourite. 


HENRY    TAYLOR. 


409 


THE  LAY  OF  ELENA. 

HE  ask'd  me  had  I  yet  forgot 

The  mountains  of  my  native  land  1 
I  sought  an  answer,  but  had  not 

The  words  at  my  command. 
They  would  not  come,  and  it  was  better  so, 
For  had  I  utter'd  aught,  my  tears  I  know 
Had  started  at  the  word  as  free  to  flow. 

But  I  can  answer  when  there's  none  that  hears  ; 
And  now  if  I  should  weep,  none  sees  my  tears ; 
And  in  my  soul  the  voice  is  rising  strong, 
That  speaks  in  solitude, — the  voice  of  song. 

Yes,  I  remember  well 

The  land  of 'many  hues, 
Whose  charms  what  praise  can  tell, 

Whose  praise  what  heart  refuse  1 
Sublime,  but  neither  bleak  nor  bare, 
Nor  misty,  are  the  mountains  there, — 
Softly  sublime,  profusely  fair  ! 
Up  to  their  summits  clothed  in  green, 
And  fruitful  as  the  vales  between, 

They  lightly  rise, 

And  scale  the  skies, 
And  groves  and  gardens  still  abound 

For  where  no  shoot 

Could  else  take  root, 

The  peaks  are  shelved  and  terraced  round ; 
Earthward  appear,  in  mingled  growth, 

The  mulberry  and  maize, — above 
The  trellis'd  vine  extends  to  both 

The  leafy  shade  they  love. 
Looks  out  the  white-wall'd  cottage  here, 
The  lowly  chapel  rises  near  ; 
Far  down  the  foot  must  roam  to  reach 
The  lovely  lake  and  bending  beach ; 
Whilst  chestnut  green  and  olive  gray 
Checker  the  steep  and  winding  way. 

A  bark  is  launch'd  on  Como's  lake, 

A  maiden  sits  abaft ; 
A  little  sail  is  loosed  to  take 

The  night  wind's  breath,  and  waft 
The  maiden  and  her  bark  away, 
Across  the  lake  and  up  the  bay. 
And  what  doth  there  that  lady  fair, 

Upon  the  wavelet  toss'd  1 
Before  her  shines  the  evening  star, 
Behind  her  in  the  woods  afar 

The  castle  lights  are  lost. 
What  doth  she  there  1     The  evening  air 
Lifts  her  locks,  and  her  neck  is  bare  ; 
And  the  dews,  that  now  are  falling  fast, 
May  work  her  harm,  or  a  rougher  blast 

May  come  from  yonder  cloud, 
And  that  her  bark  might  scarce  sustain, 
So  slightly  built, — and  why  remain, 

And  would  she  be  allow'd 
To  brave  the  wind  and  sit  in  the  dew 
At  night  on  the  lake,  if  her  mother  knew  ? 

Her  mother  sixteen  years  before 
The  burden  of  the  baby  bore; 
And  though  brought  forth  in  joy,  the  day 
So  joyful,  she  was  wont  to  say, 
52 


In  taking  count  of  after  years, 
Gave  birth  to  fewer  hopes  than  fears. 

For  seldom  smiled 

The  serious  child, 

And  as  she  pass'd  from  childhood,  grew 
More  far-between  those  smiles,  and  few 

More  sad  and  wild. 
And  though  she  loved  her  father  well, 

And  though  she  loved  her  mother  more, 
Upon  her  heart  a  sorrow  fell, 

And  sapp'd  it  to  the  core. 
And  in  her  father's  castle,  nought 
She  ever  found  of  what  she  sought, 
And  all  her  pleasure  was  to  roam 
Among  the  mountains  far  from  home, 
And  through  thick  woods,  and  wheresoe'er 
She  saddest  felt,  to  sojourn  there ; 
And  oh  !  she  loved  to  linger  afloat 
On  the  lonely  lake  in  the  little  boat. 
It  was  not  for  the  forms, — though  fair, 
Though  grand  they  were  beyond  compare, — 
It  was  not  only  for  the  forms 
Of  hills  in  sunshine  or  in  storms, 
Or  only  unrestrain'd  to  look 
On  wood  and  lake,  that  she  forsook 

By  day  or  night 
Her  home,  and  far 

Wander'd  by  light 

Of  sun  or  star. 
It  was  to  feel  her  fancy  free, 

Free  in  a  world  without  an  end, 
With  ears  to  hear,  and  eyes  to  see, 

And  heart  to  apprehend. 
It  was  to  leave  the  earth  behind, 
And  rove  with  liberated  mind, 
As  fancy  led,  or  choice,  or  chance, 
Through  wilder'd  regions  of  romance. 
And  many  a  castle  would  she  build  ; 
And  all  around  the  woods  were  fill'd 
With  knights  and  squires  that  rode  amain, 
With  ladies  s"aved  and  giants  slain  ; 
And  as  some  contest  wavered,  came, 
With  eye  of  fire  and  breath  of  flame, 
A  dragon  that  in  cave  profound 
Had  had  his  dwelling  underground  ; 
And  he  had  closed  the  dubious  fight, 
But  that,  behold  !  there  came  in  sight 
A  hippogriff,  that  wheel'd  his  flight 
Far  in  the  sky,  then  swooping  low, 
Brings  to  the  field  a  fresher  foe  : 
Dismay'd  by  this  diversion,  fly 
The  dragon  and  his  dear  ally ; 
And  now  the  victor  knight  unties 
The  prisoner,  his  unhoped-for  prize, 

And  lo  !  a  beauteous  maid  is  she, 
Whom  they,  in  their  unrighteous  guise, 

Had  fasten'd  naked  to  a  tree ! 
Much  dreaming  these,  yet  was  she  much  awake 
To  portions  of  things  earthly,  for  the  sake 
Whereof,  as  with  a  charm,  away  would  flit 
The  phantoms,  and  the  fever  intermit. 
Whatso'  of  earthly  things  presents  a  face 
Of  outward  beauty,  or  a  form  of  grace, 
Might  not  escape  her,  hidden  though  it  were 
From  courtly  cognisance ;  'twas  not  with  her 
2M 


410 


HENRY    TAYLOR. 


As  with  the  tribe  who  see  not  nature's  boons 
Save  by  the  festal  lights  of  gay  saloons ; 
Beauty  in  plain  attire  her  heart  could  fill — 
Yea,  though  in  beggary,  'twas  beauty  still. 
Devoted  thus  to  what  was  fair  to  sight, 
She  loved  too  little  else,  nor  this  aright, 
And  many  disappointments  could  not  cure 
This  born  obliquity,  or  break  the  lure        [wise, 
Which  this  strong  passion  spread :  she  grew  not 
Nor  grows  :  experience  with  a  world  of  sighs 
Purchased,  and  tears  and  heart-break  have  been 

hers, 
And  taught  her  nothing :  where  she  err'd  she  errs. 

Be  it  avow'd,  when  all  is  said, 
She  trod  the  path  the  many  tread  ; — 
She  loved  too  soon  in  life  ;  her  dawn 
Was  bright  with  sunbeams,  whence  is  drawn 
A  sure  prognostic  that  the  day 
Will  not  unclouded  pass  away. 
Too  young  she  loved,  and  he  on  whom 
Her  first  love  lighted,  in  the  bloom 
Of  boyhood  was,  and  so  was  graced 
With  all  that  earliest  runs  to  waste. 
Intelligent,  loquacious,  mild, 
ji       Yet  gay  and  sportive  as  a  child, 

With  feelings  light  and  quick,  that  came 

And  went,  like  flickering^  of  flame 

A  soft  demeanour,  and  a  mind 

Bright  and  abundant  in  its  kind, 

That,  playing  on  the  surface,  made 

A  rapid  change  of  light  and  shade, 

Or  if  a  darker  hour  perforce 

At  times  o'ertook  him  in  his  course, 

Still  sparkling  thick  like  glow-worms  show'd 

Life  was  to  him  a  summer's  road, — 

Such  was  the  youth  to  whom  a  love 

For  grac?  and  beauty  far  above 

Their  due  deserts,  betray'd  a  heart 

Which  might  have  else  perform'd  a  prouder  part. 

First  love  the  world  is  wont  to  call 
The  passion  which  was  now  her  all. 
So  be  it  call'd ;  but  be  it  known 

The  feeling  which  possess'd  her  now 
Was  novel  in  degree  alone ; 
Love  early  mark'd  her  for  his  own  ; 
Soon  as  the  winds  of  heaven  had  blown 
Upon  her,  had  the  seed  been  sown 

In  soil  which  needed  not  the  plough ; 
And  passion  with  her  growth  had  grown, 

And  strengthen'd  with  her  strength,  and  how 
Could  love  be  new,  unless  in  name, 
Degree,  and  singleness  of  aim  1 
A  tenderness  had  fill'd  her  mind 
Pervasive,  viewless,  undefined  ;— 
As  keeps  the  subtle  fluid  oft 
Its  secret,  gathering  in  the  soft 
And  sultry  air,  till  felt  at  length 
In  all  its  desolating  strength, 
So  silent,  so  devoid  of  dread, 
Her  objectless  affections  spread  ; 
Not  wholly  unemploy'd,  but  squander'd 
At  large  where'er  her  fancy  wander'd ; 
Till  one  attraction,  one  desire 
Concentred  all  the  scatter'd  fire  ; 


It  broke,  it  burst,  it  blazed  amain, 
It  flash'd  its  light  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
O'er  earth  below  and  heaven  above, — 
And  then  it  took  the  name  of  love. 

How  fared  that  love  ?  the  tale  so  old, 
So  common,  needs  it  to  be  told  I 
Bellagio's  woods,  ye  saw  it  through 
From  first  accost  to  last  adieu  ; 
Its  changes,  seasons,  you  can  tell, — 
At  least  you  typify  them  well. 
First  came  the  genial,  hopeful  spring. 
With  bursting  buds  and  birds  that  sing, 
And  fast  though  fitful  progress  made 
To  brighter  suns  and  broader  shade. 
Those  brighter  suns,  that  broader  shade, 
They  came,  and  richly  then  array'd 
Was  bough  and  sward,  and  all  below 
Gladden'd  by  summer's  equal  glow. 
What  next]  a  change  is  slowly  seen, 

And  deepeneth  day  by  day 
The  darker,  soberer,  sadder  green 

Prevenient  to  decay. 

Yet  still  at  times  through  that  green  gloom, 
As  sudden  gusts  might  make  them  room, 

And  lift  the  spray  so  light, 
The  berries  of  the  mountain-ash, 
Arching  the  torrent's  foam  and  flash, 

Waved  gladly  into  sight. 
But  rare  those  short-lived  gleamings  grew, 
And  wore  the  woods  a  sicklier  hue  ; 
Destruction  now  his  phalanx  forms 
Mid  wailing  winds  and  gathering  storms  ; 
And  last  comes  winter's  withering  breath, 
Keen  as  desertion,  cold — cold  as  the  hand  of  death! 

Is  the  tale  told  1  too  well,  alas  ! 
Is  pictured  here  what  came  to  pass. 
So  long  as  light  affections  play'd 
Around  their  path,  he  loved  the  maid  ; 
Loved  in  half-gay,  half-tender  mood, 
By  passion  touch'd,  but  not  subdued ; 
Laugh'd  at  the  flame  he  felt  or  lit ; 
Replied  to  tenderness  with  wit ; 
Sometimes  when  passion  brightlier  burn'd, 
Its  tokens  eagerly  return'd, 
Then  calm,  supine,  but  pleased  no  less, 
Softly  sustain'd  each  soft  caress. 
She,  watching  with  delight  the  while 
His  half-closed  eyes  and  gradual  smile, 
(Slow  pleasure's  smile,  how  far  more  worth, 
More  beautiful  than  smiles  of  mirth  ! 
Seem'd  to  herself  when  back  she  cast 
A  hurried  look  upon  the  past, 

As  changed  from  what  she  then  had  been, 
As  was  the  moon,  who  having  run 
Her  orbit  through  since  this  begun, 

Now  shone  "  apparent  queen." 
How  dim  a  world,  how  blank  a  waste, 
A  shadowy  orb  how  faintly  traced, 
Her  crescent  fancy  first  embraced  ! 
How  fair  an  orb,  a  world  how  bright, 
How  fill'd  with  glory  and  with  light 
Had  now  revealed  itself  to  sight ! 
A  glory  of  her  essence  grown, 
A  light  incorporate  with  her  own  ! 


HENRY    TAYLOR. 


411 


Forth  from  such  paradise  of  bliss 
Open  the  way  and  easy  is, 

Like  that  renown'd  of  old  ; 
And  easier  than  the  most  was  this, 
For  they  were  sorted  more  amiss 

Than  outward  things  foretold. 
The  goddess,  that  with  cruel  mirth 
The  daughters  and  the  sons  of  earth 
Mismatches,  hath  a  cunning  eye 
In  twisting  of  a  treacherous  tie  ; 
Nor  is  she  backward  to  perceive 
That  loftier  minds  to  lower  cleave 
With  ampler  love  (as  that  which  flows 
From  a  rich  source)  than  these  to  those ; 
For  still  the  source,  not  object,  gives 
The  daily  food  whereon  love  lives. 
The  well-spring  of  his  love  was  poor 
Compared  to  her's ;  his  gifts  were  fewer ; 
The  total  light  that  was  in  him 
Before  a  spark  of  her's  grew  dim  ; 
Too  high,  too  grave,  too  large,  too  deep, 
Her  love  could  neither  laugh  nor  sleep  ; 
And  thus  it  tired  him  ;  his  desire 
Was  for  a  less  consuming  fire : 
He  wish'd  that  she  should  love  him  well, 
Not  wildly  ;  wish'd  her  passion's  spell 

To  charm  her  heart,  but  leave  her  fancy  free 
To.  quicken  converse,  not  to  quell; 

He  granted  her  to  sigh,  for  so  could  he  ; 
But  when  she  wept,  why  should  it  be] 
'T  was  irksome,  for  it  stole  away 
The  joy  of  his  love-holiday. 
Bred  of  such  uncongenial  mood 
At  length  would  some  dim  doubt  intrude 
If  what  he  felt,  so  far  below 
Her  passion's  pitch,  were  love  or  no. 
With  that  the  common  daylight's  beam 
Broke  in  upon  his  morning  dream, 
And  as  that  common  day  advanced 
His  heart  was  wholly  unentranced. 

What  follow'd  was  not  good  to  do, 

Nor  is  it  good  to  tell  ; 
The  anguish  of  that  worst  adieu 
Which  parts  with  love  and  honour  too, 

Abides  not, — so  far  well. 
The  human  heart  can  not  sustain 
Prolong'd  inalterable  pain, 
And  not  till  reason  cease  to  reign 
Will  nature  want  some  moments  brief 
Of  other  moods  to  mix  with  grief; 
Such  and  so  hard  to  be  destroy'd 
That  vigour  which  abhors  a  void, 
And  in  the  midst  of  all  distress, 
Such  nature's  need  for  happiness  ! 
And  when  she  rallied  thus,  more  high 
Her  spirits  ran,  she  knew  not  why, 
Than  was  their  wont  in  times  than  these 
Less  troubled,  with  a  heart  at  ease. 
So  meet  extremes  ;  so  joy's  rebound 
Is  highest  from  the  hollowest  ground  ; 
So  vessels  with  the  storm  that  strive 
Pitch  higher  as  they  deeplier  dive. 

Well  had  it  been  if  she  had  curb'd 
These  transports  of  a  mind  disturb'd  ; 


For  grief  is  then  the  worst  of  foes 
When,  all  intolerant  of  repose, 
It  sends  the  heart  abroad  to  seek 
From  weak  recoils  exemptions  weak  ; 
After  false  gods  to  go  astray, 
Deck  altars  vile  with  garlands  gay, 
And  place  a  painted  form  of  stone 
On  passion's  abdicated  throne. 

Till  then  her  heart  was  as  a  mound, 
Or  simple  plot  of  garden  ground 

Far  in  a  forest  wild, 
Where  many  a  seedling  had  been  sown, 
And  many  a  bright-eyed  floweret  grown 

To  please  a  favourite  child. 
Delighted  was  the  child  to  call 

The  plot  of  garden-ground  her  own  ; 
Delighted  was  she  at  the  fall 
Of  evening  mild  when  shadows  tall 
Cross-barr'd  the  mound  and  cottage  wall, 

To  linger  there  alone. 
Nor  seem'd  the  garden  flowers  less  fair, 
Nor  loved  she  less  to  linger  there, 
When  glisten'd  in  the  morning  dew 
Each  lip  of  red  and  eye  of  blue; 
And  when  the  sun  too  brightly  burn'd 
Towards  the  forest's  verge  she  turn'd, 
Where  stretch'd  away  from  glade  to  glade 
A  green  interminable  shade  ; 
And  in  the  skirts  thereof  a  bower 
Was  built  with  many  a  creeping  flower, 
For  shelter  at  the  noontide  hour ; 
And  from  the  forest  walks  was  heard 
The  voice  of  many  a  singing  bird, 
With  murmurs  of  the  cushat-dove, 
That  tell  the  secret  of  her  love  : 
And  pleasant  therefore  all  day  long, 
From  earliest  dawn  to  even-song, — 
Supremely  pleasant  was  this  wild 
Sweet  garden  to  the  woodsman's  child — 
The  whirlwind  came  with  fire  and  flood 
And  smote  the  garden  in  the  wood  ; 
All  that  was  form'd  to  give  delight 
Destruction  levell'd  in  a  night ; 
The  morning  broke,  the  child  awoke, 
And  when  she  saw  what  sudden  stroke 
The  garden  which  she  loved  had  swept 
To  ruin,  she  sat  down  and  wept. 
Her  grief  was  great,  but  it  had  vent ; 
Its  force,  not  spared,  was  sooner  spent ; 
And  she  bethought  her  to  repair 
The  garden  which  had  been  so  fair. 
Then  roam'd  she  through  the  forest  walks, 
Cropping  the  wild  flowers  by  their  stalks, 
And  divers  full-blown  blossoms  gay 
She  gather'd  and  in  fair  array 
Disposed,  and  stuck  them  in  the  mound 
Which  had  been  once  her  garden  ground. 
They  seem'd  to  flourish  for  awhile, 
A  moment's  space  she  seem'd  to  smile ; 
But  brief  the  bloom,  and  vain  the  toil, 
They  were  not  native  to  the  soil. 

That  other  child,  beneath  whose  zone 
Were  passions  fearfully  full-grown, — 


412 


HENRY   TAYLOR. 


She  too  essay'd  to  deck  toe  waste 

Where  love  had  grown,  which  love  had  graced 

With  false  adornments — flowers,  not  fruit — 

Fast-fading  flowers,  that  strike  not  root, — 

With  pleasures  alien  to  her  breast, 

That  bloom  but  briefly  at  the  best ; 

The  world's  sad  substitutes  for  joys 

To  minds  that  lose  their  equipoise. 

On  Como's  lake  the  evening  star 

Is  trembling  as  before  ; 
An  azure  flood,  a  golden  bar, 
There  as  they  were  before  they  are, 
But  she  that  loved  them — she  is  far, 

Far  from  her  native  shore. 
No  more  is  seen  her  slender  boat 
Upon  the  star-lit  lake  afloat, 
With  oar  or  sail  at  large  to  rove, 
Or  tether'd  in  its  wooded  cove 
Mid  gentle  waves  that  sport  around, 
And  rock  it  with  a  gurgling  sound. 
Keel  up,  it  rots  upon  the  strand, 
Its  gunwale  sunken  in  the  sand, 
Where  suns  and  tempests  warp'd  and  shrank 
Each  shatter'd  rib  and  riven  plank. 
Never  again  that  land-wreck'd  craft 
Shall  feel  the  billow  boom  abaft ; 
Never,  when  springs  the  freshening  gale, 
Take  life  again  from  oar  or  sail : 
Nor  shall  the  freight  that  once  it  bore 
Again  be  seen  on  lake  or  shore. 

A  foreign  land  is  now  her  choice, 

A  foreign  sky  above  her, 
And  unfamiliar  is  each  voice 

Of  those  that  say  they  love  her. 
A  prince's  palace  is  her  home, 
And  marble  floor  and  gilded  dome, 
Where  festive  myriads  nightly  meet, 
Quick  echoes  of  her  steps  repeat. 
And  she  is  gay  at  time,  and  light 
From  her  makes  many  faces  bright ; 
And  circling  flatterers  hem  her  in 
Assiduous  each  a  word  to  win, 
And  smooth  as  mirrors  each  the  while 
Reflects  and  multiplies  her  smile. 
But  fitful  were  her  smiles,  nor  long 
She  cast  them  to  that  courtly  throng  ; 
And  should  the  sound  of  music  fall 
Upon  her  ear  in  that  high  hall, 
The  smile  was  gone,  the  eye  that  shone 
So  brightly,  would  be  dimm'd  anon, 
And  objectless  would  then  appear 
As  stretch'd  to  check  the  starting  tear. 
The  chords  within  responsive  rung, 
For  music  spoke  her  native  tongue. 

And  then  the  sray  and  glittering  crowd 
Is  heard  not,  laugh  they  e'er  so  loud  ; 
Nor  then  is  seen  the  simpering  row 
Of  flatterers,  bend  they  e'er  so  low  ; 
For  there  before  her  when  she  stands, 
The  mountains  rise,  the  lake  expands ; 
Around  the  terraced  summit  twines 
The  leafy  coronal  of  vines  ; 
Within  the  watery  mirror  deep 
Nature's  calm  converse  lies  asleep ; 


Above  she  sees  the  sky's  blue  glow, 

The  forest's  varied  green  below, 

And  far  its  vaulted  vistas  through 

A  distant  grove  of  darker  hue, 

Where,  mounting  high  from  clumps  of  oak, 

Curls  lightly  up  the  thin  gray  smoke  ; 

And  o'er  the  boughs  that  over-bower 

The  crag,  a  castle's  turrets  tower — 

An  eastern  casement  mantled  o'er 

With  ivy  flashes  back  the  gleam 
Of  sunrise — it  was  there  of  yore 
She  sate  to  see  that  sunrise  pour 
Its  splendour  round — she  sees  no  more, 

For  tears  disperse  the  dream. 

Thus  seized  and  speechless  had  she  stood, 

Surveying  mountain,  lake,  and  wood, 

When  to  her  ear  came  that  demand, 

Had  she  forgot  her  native  land  1 

'T  was  but  a  voice  within  replied 

She  had  forgotten  all  beside. 

For  words  are  weak  and  most  to  seek 

When  wanted  fifty -fold, 
And  then  if  silence  will  not  speak, 
Or  trembling  lip  and  changing  cheek, 

There's  nothing  told. 
But  could  she  have  reveal'd  to  him 

Who  question'd  thus,  the  vision  bright, 
That  ere  his  words  were  said  grew  dim 

And  vanish'd  from  her  sight, 
Easy  the  answer  were  to  know 

And  plain  to  understand, — 

That  mind  and  memory  both  must  fail, 
And  life  itself  must  slacken  sail, 
And  thought  its  functions  must  forego, 
And  fancy  lose  its  latest  glow, 

Or  ere  that  land 

Could  pictured  be  less  bright  and  fair 
To  her  whose  home  and  heart  are  there 
That  land  the  loveliest  that  eye  can  see 
The  stranger  ne'er  forgets,  then  how  should  she  1 


FROM  PHILIP  VAN  ARTEVELDE. 
REPOSE  OF  THE  HEART. 

THE  heart  of  man,  walk  it  which  way  it  will, 
Sequester'd  or  frequented,  smooth  or  rough, 
Down  the  deep  valley  amongst  tinkling  flocks, 
Or  mid  the  clang  of  trumpets  and  the  march 
Of  clattering  ordnance,  still  must  have  its  halt, 
Its  hour  of  truce,  its  instant  of  repose, 
Its  inn  of  rest ;  and  craving  still  must  seek 
The  food  of  its  affections — still  must  slake 
Its  constant  thirst  of  what  is  fresh  and  pure, 
And  pleasant  to  behold. 

APPROACH  OF  MORNING. 

THE  gibbous  moon  was  in  a  wan  decline, 
And  all  was  silent  as  a  sick  man's  chamber. 
Mixing  its  small  beginnings  with  the  dregs 
Of  the  pale  moonshine  and  a  few  faint  stars, 
The  cold  uncomfortable  daylight  dawn'd ; 
And  the  white  tents,  topping  a  low  ground-fog, 
Show'd  like  a  fleet  becalm'd. 


HENRY    TAYLOR. 


413 


ARTEVELDE'S  LOVE   FOR  ADRIANA. 

To  bring  a  cloud  upon  the  summer  day 
Of  one  so  happy  and  so  beautiful, — 
It  is  a  hard  condition.     For  myself, 
I  know  not  that  the  circumstance  of  life 
In  all  its  changes  can  so  far  afflict  me, 
As  makes  anticipation  much  worth  while. 
But  she  is  younger, — of  a  sex  beside 
Whose  spirits  are  to  ours  as  flame  to  fire, 
More  sudden  and  more  perishable  too ; 
So  that  the  gust  wherewith  the  one  is  kindled 
Extinguishes  the  other.     Oh,  she  is  fair ! 
As  fair  as  heaven  to  look  upon  !  as  fair 
As  ever  vision  of  the  virgin  blest 
That  weary  pilgrim,  resting  at  the  fount 
Beneath  the  palm,  and  dreaming  to  the  tune 
Of  flowing  waters,  duped  his  soul  withal. 
It  was  permitted  in  my  pilgrimage, 
To  rest  beside  the  fount  beneath  the  tree, 
Beholding  there  no  vision,  but  a  maid 
Whose  form  was  light  and  graceful  as  the  palm, 
Whose  heart  was  pure  and  jocund  as  the  fount, 
And  spread  a  freshness  and  a  verdure  round. 
This  was  permitted  in  my  pilgrimage, 
And  loth  I  am  to  take  my  staff  again. 
Say  that  I  fall  not  in  this  enterprise — 
Still  must  my  life  be  full  of  hazardous  turns, 
And  they  that  house  with  me  must  ever  live 
In  imminent  peril  of  some  evil  fate. 
— Make  fast  the  doors ;  heap  wood  upon  the  fire ; 
Draw  in  your  stools  and  pass  the  goblet  round, 
And  be  the  prattling  voice  of  children  heard. 
Now  let  us  make  good  cheer — but  what  is  this  1 
Do  I  not  see,  or  do  I  dream  I  see 
A  form  that  midmost  in  the  circle  sits 
Half  visible,  his  face  deform'd  with  scars, 
And  foul  with  blood  1 — Oh  yes,  I  know  it — there 
Sits  DAXGER  with  his  feet  upon  the  hearth. 
(Pauses  for  some  time,  and  then  resumes  in  a  livelier  tone.) 
Still  for  myself,  I  fear  not  but  that  I, 
Taking  what  comes,  leaving  what  leave  I  must, 
Could  make  a  sturdy  struggle  through  the  world. 
But  for  the  maid,  the  choice  were  better  far 
To  win  her  dear  heart  back  again  if  lost, 
And  stake  it  unon  some  less  dangerous  cast. 


GREATNESS  AND  SUCCESS. 

HE  was  one 

Of  many  thousand  such  that  die  betimes, 
Whose  story  is  a  fragment  known  to  few. 
Then  comes  the  man  who  has  the  luck  to  live, 
And  he's  a  prodigy.     Compute  the  chances, 
And  deem  there's  ne'er  one  in  dangerous  times 
Who  wins  the  race  of  glory,  but  than  him 
A  thousand  men  more  gloriously  endow'd 
Have  fallen  upon  the  course  ;  a  thousand  others 
Have  had  their  fortunes  founder'd  by  a  chance, 
Whilst  lighter  barks  push'd  past  them ;  to  whom  add 
A  smaller  tally,  of  the  singular  few, 
Who,  gifted  with  predominating  powers, 
Bear  yet  a  temperate  will  and  keep  the  peace. 
The  world  knows  nothing  of  its  greatest  men. 


TWO  CHARACTERS. 

THAN  Lord  de  Vaux  there's  no  man  sooner  sees 
Whatever  at  a  glance  is  visible ; 
What  is  not,  he  can  never  see  at  all. 
Quick-witted  is  he,  versatile,  seizing  points, 
But  never  solving  questions:  vain  he  is — 
It  is  his  pride  to  see  things  on  all  sides, 
Which  best  to  do  he  sets  them  on  their  corners. 
Present  before  him  arguments  by  scores 
Bearing  diversely  on  the  affair  in  hand, 
He'll  see  them  all  successively,  distinctly, 
Yet  never  two  of  them  can  see  together  ; 
Or  gather,  blend,  and  balance  what  he  sees 
To  make  up  one  account;  a  mind  it  is 
Accessible  to  reason's  subtlest  rays, 
And  many  enter  there,  but  none  converge ; 
It  is  an  army  with  no  general, 
An  arch  without  a  key -stone.     Then  the  other, 
Good  Martin  Blondel-Vatre — he  is  rich 
In  nothing  else  but  difficulties  and  doubts. 
You  shall  be  told  the  evil  of  your  scheme, 
But  not  the  scheme  that's  better.     He  forgets 
That  policy,  expecting  not  clear  gain, 
Deals  ever  in  alternatives.     He's  wise 
In  negatives,  is  skilful  at  erasures, 
Expert  in  stepping  backwards,  an  adept 
At  auguring  eclipses.     But  admit 
His  apprehensions,  and  demand,  what  then  ? 
And  you  shall  find  you've  turn'd  the  blank  leaf 
over. 


REPENTANCE  AND  IMPROVEMENT. 

HE  that  lacks  time  to  mourn,  lacks  time  to  mend. 

Eternity  mourns  that.     'Tis  an  ill  cure 

For  life's  worst  ills,  to  have  no  time  to  feel  them. 

Where  sorrow's  held  intrusive  and  turn'd  out, 

There  wisdom  will  not  enter,  nor  true  power, 

Nor  aught  that  dignifies  humanity. 

Yet  such  the  barrenness  of  busy  life  ! 

From  shelf  to  shelf  ambition  clambers  up, 

To  reach  the  naked'st  pinnacle  of  all, 

Whilst  magnanimity,  absolved  from  toil, 

Reposes  self-included  at  the  base. 


ARTEVELDE'S  CHARACTER  OF  HIS  WIFE. 

SHE  was  a  creature  framed  by  love  divine 
For  mortal  love  to  muse  a  life  away 
In  pondering  her  perfections;  so  unmoved 
Amidst  the  world's  contentions,  if  they  touch'd 
No  vital  chord  nor  troubled  what  she  loved, 
Philosophy  might  look  her  in  the  face, 
And  like  a  hermit  stooping  to  the  well 
That  yields  him  sweet  refreshment,  might  therein 
See  but  his  own  serenity  reflected 
With  a  more  heavenly  tenderness  of  hue  ! 
Yet  whilst  the  world's  ambitious  empty  cares, 
Its  small  disquietudes  and  insect  stings, 
Disturb'd  her  never,  she  was  one  made  up 
Of  feminine  affections,  and  her  life 
Was  one  full  stream  of  love  from  fount  to  sea. 
2w2 


414 


HENRY    TAYLOR. 


J805 


ARTEVELDE'S  VISION  OF  HIS  WIFE,  THE 
NIGHT  BEFORE  HIS  DEATH. 

TOUCHING  this  eye-creation; 

What  is  it  to  surprise  us  1 

Man's  grosser  attributes  can  generate 
What  is  not,  and  has  never  been  at  all ; 
What  should  forbid  his  fancy  to  restore 
A  being  pass'd  away  1     The  wonder  lies 
In  the  mind  merely  of  the  wondering  man. 
Treading  the  steps  of  common  life  with  eyes 
Of  curious  inquisition,  some  will  stare 
At  each  discovery  of  nature's  ways, 
As  it  were  new  to  find  that  God  contrives. 
The  contrary  were  marvellous  to  me, 
And  till  I  find  it  I  shall  marvel  not. 
Or  all  is  wonderful,  or  nothing  is. 
As  for  this  creature  of  my  eyes — .... 
It  was  the  image  of  my  wife  ! . . . 

Dejected  I  had  been  before :  that  sight 
Inspired  a  deeper  sadness,  but  no  fear. 
Nor  had  it  struck  that  sadness  to  my  soul 
But  for  the  dismal  cheer  the  thing  put  on, 
And  the  unsightly  points-of  circumstance 

That  sullied  its  appearance  and  departure 

She  appeared 

In  white,  as  when  I  saw  her  last,  laid  out 
After  her  death ;  suspended  in  the  air 
She  seem'd,  and  o'er  her  breast  her  arms  were  cross'd; 
Her  feet  were  drawn  together  pointing  downwards, 
And  rigid  was  her  form  and  motionless. 
From  near  her  heart,  as  if  the  source  were  there, 
A  stain  of  blood  went  wavering  to  her  feet. 
So  she  remain'd  inflexible  as  stone 
And  I  as  fixedly  regarded  her. 
Then  suddenly,  and  in  a  line  oblique, 
Thy  figure  darted  past  her,  whereupon,      [moved, 
Though  rigid  still  and  straight,  she    downward 
And  as  she  pierced  the  river  with  her  feet 
Descending  steadily,  the  streak  of  blood 
Peel'd  off  upon  the  water,  which,  as  she  vanish'd, 
Appear'd  al!  blood,  and  swell'd  and  welter'd  sore, 
And  midmost  in  the  eddy  and  the  whirl 
My  own  face  saw  I,  which  was  pale  and  calm 

As  death  could  make  it : then  the  vision  pass'd, 

And  I  perceived  the  river  and  the  bridge, 

The  mottled  sky  and  horizontal  moon, 

The  distant  camp,  and  all  things  as  they  were. 

CHARACTER  OF  ARTEVELDE,  BY  THE  DUKE  OF 
BURGUNDY. 

—  DIRE  rebel  though  he  was, 
Yet  with  a  noble  nature  and  great  gifts 
Was  he  endow'd  :  courage,  discretion,  wit, 
An  equal  temper  and  an  ample  soul, 
Rock-bound  and  fortified  against  assaults 
Of  transitory  passion,  but  below 
Built  on  a  surging  subterranean  fire 
That  stirr'd  and  lifted  him  to  high  attempts 
So  prompt  and  capable,  and  yet  so  calm, 
He  nothing  lack'd  in  sovereignty  but  the  right ; 
Nothing  in  soldiership  except  good  fortune. 
Wherefore  with  honour  lay  him  in  his  grave, 
And  thereby  shall  increase  of  honour  come 
Unto  their  arms  who  vanish'd  one  so  wise, 
So  valiant,  so  renown'd  ! 


FAMINE  IN  A  BESIEGED  CITY. 

I  PAID  a  visit  first  to  Ukenheim, 
The  man  who  whilom  saved  our  father's  life, 
When  certain  Clementists  and  ribald  folk 
Assail'd  him  at  Malines.     He  came  last  night, 
And  said  he  knew  not  if  we  owed  him  aught, 
But  if  we  did,  a  peck  of  oatmeal  now 
Would  pay  the  debt,  and  save  more  lives  than  one. 
[  went.     It  seem'd  a  wealthy  man's  abode ; 
The  costly  drapery  and  good  house-gear 
Had,  in  an  ordinary  time,  betoken'd 
That  with  the  occupant  the  world  went  well. 
By  a  low  couch,  curtain'd  with  cloth  of  frieze, 
Sat  Ukenheim,  a  famine-stricken  man, 
With  either  bony  fist  upon  his  knees, 
And  his  long  back  upright.    His  eyes  were  fix'd, 
And  moved  not,  though  some  gentle  words  I  spake : 
Until  a  little  urchin  of  a  child 
That  call'd  him  father,  crept  to  where  he  sat 
And  pluck'd  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  with  its  small 
Arid  skinny  finger  pointed  :   then  he  rose, 
And  with  a  low  obeisance,  and  a  smile 
That  look'd  like  watery  moonlight  on  his  face, 
So  weak  and  pale  a  smile,  he  bade  me  welcome. 
I  told  him  that  a  lading  of  wheat  flour 
Was  on  its  way,  whereat,  to  my  surprise, 
His  countenance  fell,  and  he  had  almost  wept.... 

He  pluck'd  aside  the  curtain  of  the  couch, 
And  there  two  children's  bodies  lay  composed. 
They  seem'd  like  twins  of  some  ten  years  of  age, 
And  they  had  died  so  nearly  both  together 
He  scarce  could  say  which  first:   and  being  dead, 
He  put  them,  for  some  fanciful  affection, 
Each  with  its  arm  about  the  other's  neck, 
So  that  a  fairer  sight  I  had  not  seen 
Than  those  two  children,  with  their  little  faces 
So  thin  and  wan,  so  calm,  and  sad,  and  sweet. 
I  look'd  upon  them  long,  and  for  awhile 
I  wish'd  myself  their  sister,  and  to  lie 
With  them  in  death,  as  they  did  with  each  other : 
I  thought  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  world 
I  could  have  loved  so  much  ;  and  then  I  wept ; 
And  when  he  saw  I  wept,  his  own  tears  fell, 
And  he  was  sorely  shaken  and  convulsed, 
Through  weakness  of  his  frame  and  his  great  grief. 
. . .  He  thank'd  me  much  for  what  I  said  was  sent ; 
But  I  knew  well  his  thanks  were  for  my  tears. 
He  look'd  again  upon  the  children's  couch, 
And  said,  low  down,  they  wanted  nothing  now. 
So,  to  turn  off  his  eyes, 
I  drew  the  small  survivor  of  the  three 
Before  him,  and  he  snatch'd  it  up,  and  soon 
Seem'd  quite  forgetful  and  absorb'd.     With  that 
I  stole  away. 

FROM  EDWIN  THE  FAIR. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WIND. 
THE  wind,  when  first  he  rose  and  went  abroad 
Through  the  vast  region,  felt  himself  at  fault, 
Wanting  a  voice  ;  and  suddenly  to  earth 
Descended  with  a  wafture  and  a  swoop, 
Where,  wandering  volatile  from  kind  to  kind, 
He  wooed  the  several  trees  to  give  him  one. 
First  he  besought  the  ash  ;  the  voice  she  lent 


HENRY    TAYLOR. 


415 


Fitfully  with  a  free  and  lashing  change 
Flung  here  and  there  its  sad  uncertainties : 
The  aspen  next ;  a  fluttered  frivolous  twitter 
Was  her  sole  tribute  :  from  the  willow  came, 
So  long  as  dainty  summer  dress'd  her  out, 
A  whispering  sweetness,  but  her  winter  note 
Was  hissing,  dry,  and  reedy  :  lastly  the  pine 
Did  he  solicit,  and  from  her  he  drew 
A  voice  so  constant,  soft,  and  lowly  deep, 
That  there  he  rested,  welcoming  in  her 
A  mild  memorial  of  the  ocean  cave 
Where  he  was  born. 

DUNSTAN'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  TEMPTATIONS. 

I  BUT  denounce 

Loves  on  a  throne,  and  pleasures  out  of  place. 
I  am  not  old ;  not  twenty  years  have  fled 
Since  I  was  young  as  thou ;  and  in  my  youth 
I  was  not  by  those  pleasures  unapproach'd 
Which  youth  converses  with 

When  Satan  first 

Attempted  me,  'twas  in  a  woman's  shape  ; 
•Such  shape  as  may  have  erst  misled  mankind, 
When  Greece  or  Rome  uprear'd  with  Pagan  rites 
Temples  to  Venus,  pictured  there  or  carved 
With  rounded,  polish'd,  and  exuberant  grace, 
And  mien  whose  dimpled  changefulness  betray'd, 
Through  jocund  hues,  the  seriousness  of  passion. 
I  was  attempted  thus,  and  Satan  sang 
With  female  pipe  and  melodies  that  thrill'd 
The  soften'd  soul,  of  mild  voluptuous  ease 
And  tender  sports  that  chased  the  kindling  hours 
In  odorous  gardens  or  on  terraces, 
To  music  of  the  fountains  and  the  birds, 
Or  else  in  skirting  groves  by  sunshine  smitten, 
Or  warm  winds  kiss'd,  whilst  we  from  shine  to  shade 
Roved  unregarded.     Yes,  'twas  Satan  sang, 
Because  'twas  sung  to  me,  whom  God  had  call'd 
To  other  pastime  and  severer  joys. 
But  were  it  not  for  this,  God's  strict  behest 
Enjoin'd  upon  me, — had  I  not  been  vow'd 
To  holiest  service  rigorously  required, 
I  should  have  own'd  it  for  an  angel's  voice, 
Nor  ever  could  an  earthly  crown,  or  toys 
And  childishness  of  vain  ambition,  gauds 
And  tinsels  of  the  world,  have  lured  my  heart 
Into  the  tangle  of  those  mortal  cares 
That  gather  round  a  throne.     What  call  is  thine 
From  God  or  man  ?     What  voice  within  bids  thee 
Such  pleasures  to  forego,  such  cares  confront? 


CALMNESS  AND  RETROSPECTION. 

A  SACRED  and  judicial  calmness  holds 
Its  mirror  to  my  soul ;  at  once  disclosed, 
The  picture  of  the  past  presents  itself 
Minute  yet  vivid,  such  as  it  is  seen 
In  his  last  moments  by  a  drowning  man. 
Look  at  this  skeleton  of  a  once  green  leaf: 
Time  and  the  elements  conspired  its  fall ; 
The  worm  hath  eaten  out  the  tenderer  parts, 
And  left  this  curious  anatomy 
Distinct  of  structure — made  so  by  decay. 
So,  at  this  moment,  lies  my  life  before  me, — 
In  all  its  intricacies,  all  its  errors — 
And  can  I  be  unjust! 


A  SOLILOQUY  OF  LEOLF. 

HERE  again  I  stand, 
Again  and  on  the  solitary  shore 
Old  ocean  plays  as  on  an  instrument, 
Making  that  ancient  music,  when  not  known  ? 
That  ancient  music,  only  not  so  old 
As  He  who  parted  ocean  from  dry  land, 
And  saw  that  it  was  good.     Upon  mine  ear, 
As  in  the  season  of  susceptive  youth, 
The  mellow  murmur  falls — but  finds  the  sense 
Dull'd  by  distemper ;  shall  I  say — by  time  1 
Enough  in  action  has  my  life  been  spent 
Through  the  past  decade,  to  rebate  the  edge 
Of  early  sensibility.     The  sun 
Rides  high,  and  on  the  thoroughfares  of  life 
I  find  myself  a  man  in  middle  age, 
Busy  and  hard  to  please.     The  sun  shall  sooi 
Dip  westerly, — but  oh  !  how  little  like 
Are  life's  two  twilights  !    Would  the  last  were  first, 
And  the  first  last !  that  so  we  might  be  soothed 
Upon  the  thoroughfares  of  busy  life 
Beneath  the  noonday  sun,  with  hope  of  joy 
Fresh  as  the  morn, — with  hope  of  breaking  lights, 
Illuminated  mists  and  spangled  lawns, 
And  woodland  orisons  and  unfolding  flowers, 
As  things  in  expectation.     Weak  of  faith! 
Is  not  the  course  of  earthly  outlook,  thus 
Reversed  from  Hope,  an  argument  to  Hope — 
That  she  was  licensed  to  the  heart  of  man 
For  other  than  for  earthly  contemplations, 
In  that  observatory  domiciled 
For  survey  of  the  stars? 


A  SCHOLAR. 

THIS  life,  and  all  that  it  contains,  to  him 
Is  but  a  tissue  of  illuminous  dreams 
Fill'd  with  book-wisdom,  pictured  thought  and  love 
That  on  its  own  creations  spends  itself. 
All  things  he  understands,  and  nothing  does. 
Profusely  eloquent  in  copious  praise 
Of  action,  he  will  talk  to  you  as  one 
Whose  wisdom  lay  in  dealings  and  transactions  ; 
Yet  so  much  action  as  might  tie  his  shoe 
Cannot  his  will  command  ;  himself  alone 
By  his  own  wisdom  not  a  jot  the  gainer. 
Of  silence,  and  the  hundred  thousand  things 
'Tis  better  not  to  mention,  he  will  speak, 
And  still  most  wisely. 


DUNSTAN  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  MOTHER. 

WHY  did  I  quit  the  cloister  ?     I  have  fought 
The  battles  of  Jehovah;  I  have  braved 
The  perfidies  of  courts,  the  wrath  of  kings, 
Desertion,  treachery, — and  I  murmur'd  not, — 
The  fall  from  puissance,  the  shame  of  flight, 
The  secret  knife,  the  public  proclamation, — 
And  how  am  I  rewarded  ?     God  had  raised 
New  enemies  against  me, — from  without 
The  furious  Northman, — from  within,  far  worse, 
Heart-sickness  and  a  subjugating  grief. 
She  was  my  friend — I  had  but  her — no  more, 
No  other  upon  earth — and  as  for  heaven, 
I  am  as  they  that  seek  a  sign,  to  whom 
No  sign  is  given.     My  mother !  Oh,  my  mother  ! 


T.    K.    HERVEY. 


THOMAS  K.  HERVEY  was  born  near  Paisley, 
in  Scotland,  and  received  his  early  education 
in  Manchester.  I  believe  he  has  since  re- 
sided most  of  the  time  in  London,  where  his 
attention  has  been  principally  devoted  to  lite- 
rature. He  is  the  author  of  The  Poetical 
Sketch  Book,  The  Book  of  Christmas,  The 
Devil's  Progress,  Illustrations  of  Modern 


Sculpture,  Australia,  The  English  Helicon, 
and  numerous  contributions  to  the  annuals 
and  literary  magazines.  Some  of  his  pieces 
are  very  pleasing  and  harmonious.  The  best 
of  them  are  "poems  of  the  affections,"  de- 
scriptive of  domestic  incidents  and  feelings, 
upon  which  he  writes  with  taste,  simplicity, 
and  tenderness. 


LOVE. 

HE  stood  beside  a  cottage  lone, 

And  listen'd  to  a  lute, 
One  summer  eve,  when  the  breeze  was  gone, 

And  the  nightingale  was  mute. 
The  moon  was  watching  on  the  hill, 
The  stream  was  staid,  and  the  maples  still, 

To  hear  a  lover's  suit, 
That — half  a  vow,  and  half  a  prayer — 
Spoke  less  of  hope  than  of  despair ; 
And  rose  into  the  calm,  soft  air, 

As  sweet  and  low 

As  he  had  heard — 0,  wo !  O,  wo ! — 

The  flutes  of  angels,  long  ago  ! 
"  By  every  hope  that  earthward  clings, 
By  faith  that  mounts  on  angel-wings, 
By  dreams  that  make  night-shadows  bright, 
And  truths  that  turn  our  day  to  night, 
By  childhood's  smile,  and  manhood's  tear, 
By  pleasure's  day,  and  sorrow's  year, 
By  all  the  strains  that  fancy  sings, 
And  pangs  that  time  so  surely  brings, — 
For  joy  or  grief,  for  hope  or  fear, 
For  all  hereafter  as  for  here, 
In  peace  or  strife,  in  storm  or  shine, 
My  soul  is  wedded  unto  thine  !" 

And  for  its  soft  and  sole  reply, 
A  murmur,  and  a  sweet,  low  sigh, 

But  not  a  spoken  word ; 
And  yet  they  made  the  waters  start 

Into  his  eyes  who  heard, 
For  they  told  of  a  most  loving  heart, 

In  a  voice  like  that  of  a  bird  ; — 
Of  a  heart  that  loved,  though  it  loved  in  vain ; 
A  grieving,  and  yet  not  a  pain, — 
A  love  that  took  an  early  root, 

And  had  an  early  doom, 
Like  trees  that  never  grow  to  fruit, 

And  early  shed  their  bloom, — 
Of  vanish'd  hopes  and  happy  smiles, 

All  lost  for  evermore  ; 
Like  ships,  that  sail'd  for  sunny  isles, 

But  never  came  to  shore  ' 

416 


CLEOPATRA  EMBARKING   ON   THE 
CYDNUS. 

FLUTES  in  the  sunny  air, 

And  harps  in  the  porphyry  halls  ! 
And  a  low,  deep  hum,  like  a  people's  prayer, 

With  its  heart-breathed  swells  and  falls  ! 
And  an  echo,  like  the  desert's  call, 

Flung  back  to  the  shouting  shores ! 
And  the  river's  ripple,  heard  through  all, 

As  it  plays  with  the  silver  oars ! — 
The  sky  is  a  gleam  of  gold, 

And  the  amber  breezes  float, 
Like  thoughts  to  be  dream'd  of,  but  never  told, 

Around  the  dancing  boat ! 
She  has  stepp'd  on  the  burning  sand — 

And  the  thousand  tongues  are  mute, 
And  the  Syrian  strikes,  with  a  trembling  hand, 

The  strings  of  his  gilded  lute  ! 
And  the  Ethiop's  heart  throbs  loud  and  high, 

Beneath  his  white  symar, 
And  the  Lybian  kneels,  as  he  meets  her  eye, 

Like  the  flash  of  an  Eastern  star ! 
The  gales  may  not  be  heard, 

Yet  the  silken  streamers  quiver, 
And  the  vessel  shoots,  like  a  bright-plumed  bird, 

Away,  down  the  golden  river ! 
Away  by  the  lofty  mount, 

And  away  by  the  lonely  shore, 
And  away  by  the  gushing  of  many  a  fount, 

Where  fountains  gush  no  more  ! — 
Oh !  for  some  warning  vision  there, 

Some  voice  that  should  have  spoken 
Of  climes  to  be  laid  waste  and  bare, 

And  glad  young  spirits  broken  ! 
Of  waters  dried  away, 

And  hope  and  beauty  blasted  ! 
— That  scenes  so  fair  and  hearts  so  gay 

Should  be  so  early  wasted  ! 
A  dream  of  other  days — 

That  land  is  a  desert  now, 
And  grief  grew  up,  to  dim  the  blaze 

Upon  that  royal  brow  ! 
The  whirlwind's  burning  wing  hath  cast 

Blight  on  the  marble  plain, 


T.    K.    HERVEY. 


417 


And  sorrow,  like  the  simoom,  past 

O'er  Cleopatra's  brain. 
Too  like  her  fervid  clime,  that  bred 

Its  self-consuming  fires, 
Her  breast,  like  Indian  widows,  fed 

Its  own  funereal  pyres. 
,  — Not  such  the  song  her  minstrels  sing — 

"  Live,  beauteous,  and  for  ever !" 
As  the  vessel  darts,  with  its  purple  wing, 

Away — down  the  golden  river ! 


THE  GROTTO  OF  EGERIA. 

A  GUSH  of  waters  ! — faint,  and  sweet,  and  wild, 

Like  the  far  echo  of  the  voice  of  years, — 
The  ancient  nature,  singing  to  her  child 

The  self-same  hymn  thatlull'd  the  infant  spheres! 
A  spell  of  song  not  louder  than  a  sigh, 

Yet  speaking  like  a  trumpet  to  the  heart, 
And  thoughts  that  lift  themselves,  triumphingly, 

O'er  time — where  time  has  triumph'd  over  art, — 
As  wild-flowers  climb  its  ruins, — haunt  it  still ; 

While,  still,  above  the  consecrated  spot, 
Lifts  up  its  prophet  voice  the  ancient  rill, 

And  flings  its  oracles  along  the  grot. 
But,  where  is  she,  the  lady  of  the  stream, 

And  he  whose  worship  was,  and  is — a  dream  ] 

Silent,  yet  full  of  voices  ! — desolate, 

Yet  fill'd  with  memories,  like  a  broken  heart ! 
Oh  !  for  a  vision  like  to  his  who  sate 

With  thee,  and  with  the  moon  and  stars,  apart, 
By  the  cool  fountain,  many  a  livelong  even, 

That  speaks,  unheeded,  to  the  desert,  now, 
When  vanish'd  clouds  had  left  the  air  all  heaven, 

And  all  was  silent,  save  the  stream  and  thou, 
Egeria  ! — solemn  thought  upon  his  brows, 

For  all  his  diadem  ;  thy  spirit-eyes 
His  only  homage  ;  and  the  flitting  boughs 

A  nd  birds,  alone,  between  him  and  the  skies ! 
Each  outwaid  sense  expanded  to  a  soul, 

And  every  feeling  tuned  into  a  truth  ; 
And  all  the  bosom's  shatter'd  strings  made  whole, 

And  all  its  worn-out  powers  retouch'd  with  youth, 
Beneath  thy  spell,  that  chasten'd  while  it  charm'd, 

Thy  words,  that  touch'd  the  spirit  while  they 

taught, 
Thy  look,  that  utter'd  wisdom  while  it  warm'd, 

And  moulded  fancy  in  the  stamp  of  thought, 
And  breathed  an  atmosphere  below,  above, 
Light  to  the  soul,  and  to  the  senses  love ! 

Beautiful  dreams  !  that  haunt  the  younger  earth, 

In  poet's  pencil  or  in  minstrel's  song, 
Like  sighs,  or  rainbows,  dying  in  their  birth, 

Perceived  a  moment,  and  remember'd  long  ! 
But,  no  ! — bright  visions  ! — fables  of  the  heart ! 

Not  to  the  past,  alone,  do  ye  belong ; 
Types  for  all  ages, — wove  when  early  art 

To  feeling  gave  a  voice — to  truth  a  tongue  ! 
Oh  !  what  if  gods  have  left  the  Grecian  mount, 

And  shrines  are  voiceless  on  the  classic  shore, 
And  long  Egeria  by  the  gushing  fount 

Waits  for  her  monarch-lover  never  more, — 
53 


Who  hath  not  his  Egeria  ? — some  sweet  thought, 

Shrouded  and  shrined  within  his  heart  of  hearts, 
More  closely  cherish'd,  and  more  fondly  sought, 

Still,  as  the  daylight  of  the  soul  departs ; 
The  vision'd  lady  of  the  spring,  that  wells 

In  the  green  valley  of  his  brighter  years, 
Or  gentle  spirit  that  for  ever  dwells, 

And  sings  of  hope,  beside  the  fount  of  tears. 

In  the  heart's  trance — the  calenture  pf  mind 

That  haunts  the  soul-sick  mariner  of  life, 
And  paints  the  fields  that  he  has  left  behind, 

Like  green  morganas,  on  the  tempest's  strife ; 
In  the  dim  hour  when  memory — whose  song 

Is  still  of  buried  hope — sings  back  the  dead, 
And  perish'd  looks  andforms — a  phantom-throng, — 

With  melancholy  eyes  and  soundless  tread, 
Like  lost  Eury dices,  from  graves,  retrack 

The  long-deserted  chambers  of  the  brain, 
Until  the  yearning  soul  looks  fondly  back, 

To  clasp  them,  and  they  vanish,  once  again ; 
At  even, — when  the  fight  of  youth  is  done, 

And  sorrow — like  the  "searchers  of  the  slain," — 
Turns  up  the  cold,  dead  faces,  one  by  one, 

Of  prostrate  joys  and  wishes, — but  in  vain  ! 
And  finds  that  all  is  lost, — and  walks  around, 
Mid  hopes  that,  each,  has  perish'd  of  its  wound ; 

Then,  pale  Egeria  !  to  thy  moon-lit  cave 
The  madden'd  and  the  mourner  may  retire, 

To  cool  the  spirit's  fever  in  thy  wave, 
And  gather  inspiration  from  thy  lyre ; 

In  solemn  musings,  when  the  world  is  still, 
To  woo  a  love  less  fleeting  to  the  breast, 

Or  lie  and  dream,  beside  the  prophet-rill 
That  resteth  never,  while  it  whispers  rest ; 

Like  Numa,  cast  earth's  cares  and  crowns  aside, 

And  commune  with  a  spiritual  bride ! 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  JUPITER  OLYMPIUS, 
AT  ATHENS. 

THOU  art  not  silent ! — oracles  are  thine 
Which  the  wind  utters,  and  the  spirit  hears, 
Lingering,  mid  ruin'd  fane  and  broken  shrine, 
O'er  many  a  tale  and  trace  of  other  years  ! 
Bright  as  an  ark,  o'er  all  the  flood  of  tears 
That  wraps  thy  cradle-land — thine  earthly  love, 
Where  hours  of  hope,  mid  centuries  of  fears, 
Have  gleam'd,  like  lightnings  through  the  gloom 
above,  [Jove ! 

Stands,  roofless  to  the  sky,  thy  home,  Olympian 

Thy  column'd  aisles  with  whispers  of  the  past 
Are  vocal, — and,  along  thine  ivied  walls, 
While  Elian  echoes  murmur  on  the  blast, 
And  wild-flowers  hang,  like  victor-coronals, 
In  vain  the  turban'd  tyrant  rears  his  halls, 
And  plants  the  symbol  of  his  faith  and  slaughters ; 
Now,  even  now,  the  beam  of  promise  falls 
Bright  upon  Hellas,  as  her  own  bright  daughters, 
And  a  Greek  Ararat  is  rising  o'er  the  waters  ! 

Thou  art  not  silent !  when  the  southern  fair — 
Ionia's  moon — looks  down  upon  thy  breast, 


418 


T.    K.    HERVEY. 


Smiling,  as  pity  smiles  above  despair, 
Soft  as  young  beauty  soothing  age  to  rest, — 
Sings  the  night-spirit  in  thy  weedy  crest, 
And  she,  the  minstrel  of  the  moonlight  hours 
Breathes — like  some  lone  one,  sighing  to  be  blest — 
Her  lay,  half  hope,  half  sorrow,  from  the  flowers, 
And  hoots  the  prophet  owl,  amid  his  tangled  bowers! 

And,  round  thine  altar's  mouldering  stones  are  born 
Mysterious  harpings, — wild  as  ever  crept 
From  him  who  waked  Aurora,  every  morn, 
And  sad  as  those  he  sung  her,  till  she  slept ! 
A  thousand  and  a  thousand  years  have  swept 
O'er  thee,  who  wert  a  moral  from  thy  spring, 
A  wreck  in  youth  !    nor  vainly  hast  thou  kept 
Thy  lyre:   Olympia's  soul  is  on  the  wing, 
And  a  new  Iphitus  has  waked,  beneath  its  string ! 

SLUMBER  LIE  SOFT  ON  THY  BEAUTI- 
FUL EYE  1 

SLUMBEU  lie  soft  on  thy  beautiful  eye  ! 
Spirits,  whose  smiles  are — like  thine — of  the  sky, 
Play  thee  to  sleep,  with  their  visionless  strings, 
Brighter  than  thou,  but  because  they  have  wings  ! 
Fair  as  a  being  of  heavenly  birth, 
But  loving  and  loved  like  a  child  of  the  earth ! 

Why  is  that  tear  1 — art  thou  gone,  in  thy  dream, 
To  the  valley  far-off,  and  the  moon-lighted  stream, 
Where  the  sighing  of  flowers  and  the  nightingale's 

song 

Fling  sweets  on  the  wave,  as  it  wanders  along ! — 
Blest  be  the  dream  that  restores  them  to  thee, 
But  thou  art  the  bird  and  the  roses  to  me  ! 

And  now,  as  I  watch  o'er  thy  slumbers,  alone, 
And  hear  thy  soft  breathing,  and  know  thee  mine 

own, 

And  muse  on  the  wishes  that  grew  in  that  vale, 
And  the  fancies  we  shaped  from  the  river's  low  tale, 
I  blame  not  the  fate  which  has  taken  the  rest, 
Since  it  left,  to  my  bosom,  its  dearest  and  best ! 

Slumber  lie  soft  on  thy  beautiful  eye  ! 

Love  be  a  rainbow,  to  brighten  thy  sky  ! 

Oh !  not  for  sunshine  and  hope,  would  I  part 

With  the  shade  time  has  flung  over  all — but  thy 

heart ! 

Still  art  thou  all  which  thou  wert,  when  a  child 
Only  more  holy — and  only  less  wild  ! 


TO  MYRA. 

I  LEAVE  thee  now,  my  spirit's  love  ! 

All  bright  in  youth's  unclouded  light ; 
With  sunshine  round,  and  hope  above, 

Thou  scarce  hast  learnt  to  dream  of  night 
Yet  night  will  come  ! — thy  bounding  heart 

Must  watch  its  idols  melt  away  ; 
And,  oh  !  thy  soul  must  learn  to  part 

With  much  that  made  thy  childhood  gay  ! 
But  should  we  meet  in  darker  years, 

When  clouds  have  gather'd  round  thy  brow, 
How  far  more  precious  in  thy  tears, 

Than  in  thy  glow  of  gladness,  now  ! — 


Then  come  to  me, — thy  wounded  heart 

Shall  find  it  has  a  haven  still, 
One  bosom — faithless  as  thou  art, — 

All — all  thine  own,  mid  good  and  ill ! 

Thou  leavest  me  for  the  world  !  then  go  ! 

Thou  art  too  young  to  feel  it  yet, 
But  time  may  teach  thy  heart  to  know 

The  worth  of  those  who  ne'er  forget. 

And,  should  that  world  look  dark  and  cold, 
Then  turn  to  him  whose  silent  truth 

Will  still  love  on,  when  worn  and  old, 
The  form  it  loved  so  well  in  youth  ! 

Like  that  young  bird  that  left  its  nest, 
Lured,  by  the  warm  and  sunny  sky, 

From  flower  to  flower,  but  found  no  rest, 
And  sought  its  native  vale  to  die ; — 

Go  !  leave  my  soul  to  pine  alone ; 

But,  should  the  hopes  that  woo  thee,  wither, 
Return,  my  own  beloved  one  ! 

And  let — oh,  let  us  die  together  ! 


STANZAS  TO  A  LADY. 


THE  rose  that  deck'd  thy  cheek  is  dead, 
The  ruby  from  thy  lip  has  fled, 

Thy  brow  has  lost  its  gladness ; 
And  the  pure  smiles  that  used  to  play 
So  brightly  there,  have  pass'd  away 

Before  the  touch  of  sadness  ! — 
Yet  sorrow's  shadows  o'er  thy  face 
Have  wander'd  with  a  mellowing  grace. 

And  grief  has  given  to  thine  eye 
A  beauty,  such  as  yonder  sky 

Receives,  when  daylight's  splendour 
Fades  in  the  holy  twilight  hour,  , 
Whose  magic  hangs  on  every  flower 

A  bloom  more  pure  and  tender ; 
When  angels  walk  the  quiet  even, 
On  messages  of  love  from  heaven  ! 

Thy  low  sweet  voice,  in  every  word, 
Breathes — like  soft  music  far-off  heard — 

The  soul  of  melancholy  ! 
And  oh  !  to  listen  to  thy  sigh  ! 
The  evening  gale  that  wanders  by 

The  rose  is  not  so  holy  ! 
But  none  may  know  the  thoughts  that  rest 
In  the  deep  silence  of  thy  breast ! 

For  oh  !  thou  art,  to  mortal  eyes, 
Like  some  pure  spirit  of  the  skies, 

Awhile  to  bless  us  given  ; 
And  sadly  pining  for  the  day, 
To  spread  thy  wings,  and  flee  away, 

Back  to  thy  native  heaven  ! 
Thou  wert  beloved  by  all  before, 
But  now, — a  thing  that  we  adore ! 


T.    K.    HERVEY. 


419 


HOPE. 

AGAIX — again  she  comes  ! — methinks  I  hear 

Her  wild,  sweet  singing,  and  her  rushing  wings ; 
My  heart  goes  forth  to  meet  her  with  a  tear, 

And  welcome  sends  from  all  its  broken  strings. 
It  was  not  thus — not  thus — we  met  of  yore, 

When  my  plumed  soul  went  half-way  to  the  sky 
To  greet  her ;  and  the  joyous  song  she  bore 

Was  scarce  more  tuneful  than  the  glad  reply : 
The  wings  are  fetter'd  by  the  weight  of  years, 
And  grief  has  spoil'd  the  music  with  her  tears. 

She  comes — I  know  her  by  her  starry  eyes, 

I  know  her  by  the  rainbow  in  her  hair ! 
Her  vesture  of  the  light  and  summer  skies — 

But  gone  the  girdle  which  she  used  to  wear 
Of  summer  roses,  and  the  sandal  flowers 

That  hung  enamour'd  round  her  fairy  feet, 
When,  in  her  youth,,  she  haunted  earthly  bowers, 

And  cull'd  from  all  the  beautiful  and  sweet. 
No  more  she  mocks  me  with  her  voice  of  mirth, 
Nor  offers  now  the  garlands  of  the  earth. 

Come  back,  come  back — thou  hast  been  absent  long, 

Oh  !  welcome  back  the  sybil  of  the  soul, 
Who  came,  and  comes  again,  with  pleading  strong, 

To  offer  to  the  heart  her  mystic  scroll ; 
Though  every  year  she  wears  a  sadder  look, 

And  sings  a  sadder  song,  and  every  year 
Some  further  leaves  are  torn  out  from  her  book, 

And  fewer  what  she  brings,  and  far  more  dear. 
As  once  she  came — oh,  might  she  come  again, 
With  all  the  perish'd  volumes  offer'd  then. 

But  come — thy  coming  is  a  gladness  yet — 

Light  from  the  present  o'er  the  future  cast, 
That  makes  the  present  bright — but  oh — regret 

Is  present  sorrow  while  it  mourns  the  past ; 
And  memory  speaks,  as  speaks  the  curfew  bell, 

To  tell  the  daylight  of  the  heart  is  gone. 
Come,  like  the  seer  of  old,  and  with  thy  spell, 

Put  back  the  shadow  of  that  setting  sun 
i     On  my  soul's  dial;  and  with  new-born  light 
Hush  the  wild  tolling  of  the  voice  of  night. 

Bright  spirit,  come — the  mystic  roll  is  thine, 

That  shows  the  hidden  fountains  of  the  breast, 
And  turns,  with  point  unerring,  to  divine 

The  places  where  its  buried  treasures  rest 
Its  hoards  of  thought  and  feeling ;  at  that  spell, 

Methinks  I  feel  its  long-lost  wealth  reveal'd, 
And  ancient  springs  within  my  bosom  swell 

That  grief  had  check'd,  and  ruin  had  conceal'd, 
And  sweetly  swelling  where  its  waters  stray, 
The  tints  and  freshness  of  its  earlier  day. 

She  comes — she  comes — her  voice  is  in  mine  ear, 

Her  mild,sweet  voice,  that  sings,  and  sings  for  ever 

Whose  strains  of  song  sweet  thoughts  awake  to  hear 

Like  flowers  that  haunt  the  margin  of  a  river ; 
(Flowers,  like  lovers,  only  speak  in  sighs,   [hearts,] 

Whose  thoughts  are  hues,  whose  voices  are  theii 
Oh — thus  the  spirit  yearns  to  pierce  the  skies, 

Exulting  throbs,  though  all  save  hope  departs: 
Thus  the  glad  freshness  of  our  sinless  years 
Is  water'd  ever  by  the  heart's  rich  tears. 


She  comes — I  know  her  by  her  radiant  eyes, 

Before  whose  smile  the  long  dim  cloud  departs ; 
And  if  a  darker  shade  be  on  her  brow, 

And  if  her  tones  be  sadder  than  of  yore, 
And  if  she  sings  more  solemn  music  now, 

And  bears  another  harp  than  erst  she  bore, 
And  if  around  her  form  no  longer  glow 

The  earthly  flowers  that  in  her  youth  she  wore — 
That  look  is  loftier,  and  that  song  more  sweet, 
And  heaven's  flowers — the  stars — are  at  her  feet. 


HOMES  AND  GRAVES. 

How  beautiful  a  world  were  ours, 

But  for  the  pale  and  shadowy  One 
That  treadeth  on  its  pleasant  flowers, 

And  stalketh  in  its  sun  ! 
Glad  childhood  needs  the  lore  of  time 

To  show  the  phantom  overhead  ; 
But  where  the  breast,  before  its  prime, 

That  carrieth  not  its  dead — 
The  moon  that  looketh  on  whose  home 
In  all  its  circuit  sees  no  tomb  ] 

It  was  an  ancient  tyrant's  thought, 

To  link  the  living  with  the  dead  ; 
Some  secret  of  his  soul  had  taught 

That  lesson  dark  and  dread  ; 
And,  oh  !  we  bear  about  us  still 

The  dreary  moral  of  his  art — 
Some  form  that  lieth,  pale  and  chill, 

Upon  each  living  heart, 
Tied  to  the  memory,  till  a  wave 
Shall  lay  them  in  one  common  grave ! 

To  boyhood  hope — to  manhood  fears  ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  that  each  bright  home 
Should  be  a  nursing-place  of  tears, 

A  cradle  for  the  tomb  ! 
If  childhood  seeth  all  things  loved 

Where  home's  unshadowy  shadows  wave, 
The  old  man's  treasure  hath  removed — 

He  looketh  to  the  grave ! — 
For  grave  and  home  lie  sadly  blent, 
Wherever  spreads  yon  firmament. 

A  few  short  years — and  then,  the  boy 

Shall  miss,  beside  the  household  hearth, 
Some  treasure  from  his  store  of  joy, 

To  find  it  not  on  earth ; 
A  shade  within  its  sadden'd  Walls 

Shall  sit,  in  some  beloved's  room, 
And  one  dear  name,  he  vainly  calls, 

Be  written  on  a  tomb — 
And  he  have  learnt,  from  all  beneath, 
His  first,  dread,  bitter  taste  of  death  ! 

And  years  glide  on,  till  manhood's  come; 

And  where  the  young,  glad  faces  were, 
Perchance  the  once  bright,  happy  home 

Hath  many  a  vacant  chair: 
A  darkness,  from  the  churchyard  shed, 

Hath  fall'n  on  each  familiar  roonij 


420 


T.    K.    HERVEY. 


And  much  of  all  home's  light  hath  fled 

To  smoulder  in  the  tomb — 
And  household  gifts  that  memory  saves 
But  help  to  count  the  household  graves. 

Then,  homes  and  graves  the  heart  divide, 

As  they  divide  the  outer  world ; 
But  drearier  days  must  yet  betide, 

Ere  sorrow's  wings  be  furl'd  ; 
When  more  within  the  churchyard  lie 

Than  sit  and  sadly  smile  at  home. 
Till  home,  unto  the  old  man's  eye, 

Itself  appears  a  tomb ; 
And  his  tired  spirit  asks  the  grave 
For  all  the  home  it  longs  to  have ! 

It  shall  be  so — it  shall  be  so  ! 

Go  bravely  trusting — trusting  on  ; 
Bear  up  a  few  short  years — and,  lo  ! 

The  grave  and  home  are  one  ! — 
And  then,  the  bright  ones  gone  before 

Within  another,  happier  home, 
And  waiting,  fonder  than  before, 

Until  the  old  man  come — 
A  home  where  but  the  life-trees  wave  ; 
Like  childhood's — it  hath  not  a  grave  ! 


A  VISION  OF  THE  STARS. 

FOR  ever  gone  !  the  world  is  growing  old  ! 

Gone  the  bright  visions  of  its  untaught  youth  ! 
The  age  of  fancy  was  the  age  of  gold, 

And  sorrow  holds  the  lamp  that  lights  to  truth  ! 
And  wisdom  writes  her  records  on  a  page 

Whence  many  a  pleasant  tale  is  swept  away — 
The  wild,  sweet  fables  of  the  dreaming  age, 

The  gorgeous  stories  of  the  classic  day. 
The  world  is  roused  from  glad  and  glowing  dreams, 

Though  roused  by  light  awaking  still  is  pain, 
And  oh  !  could  men  renew  their  broken  themes, 

Then,  would  the  world  at  times  might  sleep  again. 
Oh  for  the  plains — the  bright  and  haunted  plains — 

Where  genius  wander'd,  when  the  earth  was  new, 
Led  by  the  sound  of  more  than  mortal  strains, 

And  gathering  flowers  of  many  a  vanish'd  hue ! 
The  deathless  forms  that  on  the  lonely  hill 

Came  sweetly  gliding  to  the  lonely  breast, 
Or  spoke,  in  spirit  whispers,  from  the  rill 

That  lull'd  the  watcher  to  his  mystic  rest ! 
The  shapes  that  met  his  steps  by  green  and  glade, 

Or  glanced  through  mid-air,  on  their  gleaming 

wings ;  [play'd ; 

That  hover d   where   the   young,  wild  fountains 

And  hung  in  rainbows  o'er  the  dancing  springs, 
Or  drew  aside  the  curtains  of  the  sky, 
And  show'd  their  starry  mansions  to  his  eye! 
Oh  !  the  bright  tracks  by  truth  from  error  won  ! 

The  price  we  pay  for  knowledge,  and  in  vain  ! 
For  half  the  beauty  of  the  world  is  gone, 

Since  science  built  o'er  fancy's  wild  domain ! 

A  dream  of  beauty  !  such  as  came,  of  old, 

To  him  who  came  and  watch'd  the  hosts  of  light, 

As  one  by  one  their  fiery  chariots  roll'd, 
In  golden  pomp  along  the  vaults  of  night, 


Till  another,  and  another  deep 

Sent  forth  a  spirit  to  the  shining  train, 
Their  myriad  motion  rock'd  his  heart  to  sleep, 

But  left  bright  pictures  in  the  haunted  brain, 
Where  forms  grew  up,  and  took  the  starry  eyes 
That  gleamed  upon  him  from  the  crowded  skies  ! 
A  dream  like  his  to  whom  the  boon  was  given 

To  read  the  story  of  the  stars,  at  will, 
And,  by  the  lights  they  held  for  him  in  heaven, 

Talk  with  their  lady  on  the  Latinos  hill ! 
A  vision  of  the  stars  i  the  moon,  to-night — 

Her  antler'd  coursers  by  the  nymph-train  driven, 
Rides  in  the  chariot  of  her  own  sweet  light, 

To  hunt  the  shadows  through  the  fields  of  heaven  ! 
And  oh  !  the  hunting-grounds  of  yonder  sky, 

Whose  streams  are  rainbows,  and  whose  flowers 

are  stars ! — 
The  shapes  of  light  that,  as  they  wander  by, 

Do  spirit  homage  from  their  golden  cars  ! 
The  meteor  troop  that,  as  she  passes,  play 

Their  fiery  gambols  in  their  lady's  sight; 
And  planet-forms  that,  on  her  crowded  way, 

Throw  silver  incense  from'their  urns  of  light ! 
Lo !  Perseus,  from  his  everlasting  height, 

Looks  out  to  see  the  huntress  and  her  train ; 
And  Love's  own  planet,  in  the  pale,  soft  light, 

Looks  young,  as  when  she  rose  from  out  the  main! 
And,  plying  all  the  night,  his  starry  wings, 

Up  to  her  throne,  the  herald  of  the  sky 
From  many  an  earthly  home  and  hill-top,  brings 

The  mortal  offering  of  a  young  heart's  sigh  ! 
And  round  her  chariot  sail  immortal  forms, 

Or  darkly  hang  about  its  shining  rim  ; 
And,  far  away,  the  scared  and  hunted  storms 

Leap  from  their  presence,  to  their  caverns  dim  ! 
On — onward,  at  her  own  wild  fancy  led, 

Along  the  cloud-land  paths  she  holds  her  flight, 
Where  rears  the  battle-star  his  crested  head, 

And  bears  his  burning  falchion  through  the  night! 
Where,  hand  in  hand,  the  brothers  of  the  sky 

Sit,  like  twin  angels,  or  pure  heavenward  sleep  ; 
While  far  below,  with  urns  that  never  dry, 

The  mourning  Hyads  hang  their  heads  and  weep! 
Where  brightly  dwell  in  all  their  early  smiles, 

Ere  one  was  lost — the  sweet  and  sister  seven, 
Like  blessed  spirits,  pausing  from  their  toils, 

Or  some  fair  family  at  rest,  in  heaven. 
Where,  swifter  than  her  steeds,  that  never  tire — 

Some  comet-shape — those  couriers  of  the  sky — 
In  breathless  haste,  upon  his  barb  of  fire, 

On  some  immortal  message,  rushes  by  ! 
O'er  the  dim  heights  where,  encircled  by  his  train, 

And  wearing  on  his  brow  his  sparkling  crown, 
The  planet-monarch  holds  his  ancient  reign ; 

And,  from  his  palace  of  the  clouds,  looks  down, 
With  stately  presence  and  a  smiling  eye 
On  his  bright  people  of  the  boundless  sky  ! 
Mid  northern  lights,  like  fiery  flags  unfurl'd, 
And  soft,  sweet  gales  that  never  reach  the  world ; 
Mid  flaming  signs,  that  perish  in  their  birth, 
And  ancient  orb,  that  have  no  name  on  earth  ; 
Hail'd  by  the  songs  of  everlasting  choirs, 
And  welcomed  from  a  thousand  burning  lyres ! 
Oh  !  for  the  ancient  dreamer's  prophet  eye, 
To  see  the  hunting  grounds  of  yonder  sky  ; 


T.    K.    HERVEY. 


421 


To  hang  upon  some  planet's  wheeling  car, 
And  tread  the  cloud-land  paths  from  star  to  star ; 
And  climb  the  heights  where  old  Endymion 
Held  lofty  converse  with  the  lady-moon ; 
Or,  lifted  to  her  chariot  of  the  sky, 
Look  on  its  dwellers  with  a  lofty  eye,         [driven, 
And   throughout  its  fields,  in  that  bright  vision 
Walk,  for  one  night,  amid  the  hosts  of  heaven. 


THE   CONVICT  SHIP. 

•     MORIS'  on  the  waters  ! — and,  purple  and  bright, 
Bursts  on  the  billows  the  flushing  of  light! 
O'er  the  glad  waves,  like  a  child  of  the  sun, 
See  the  tall  vessel  goes  gallantly  on  ; 
Full  to  the  breeze  she  unbosoms  her  sail,     [gale  ! 
And  her  pennant  streams  onward,  like  hope,  in  the 
The  winds  come  around  her,  in  murmur  and  song, 
And  the  surges  rejoice,  as  they  bear  her  along  ! 
Upward  she  points  to  the  golden-edged  clouds, 
And  the  sailor  sings  gayly,  aloft  in  the  shrouds ! 
Onward  she  glides,  amid  ripple  and  spray, 
Over  the  waters — away,  and  away  ! 
Bright  as  the  visions  of  youth,  ere  they  part, 
Passing  away,  like  a  dream  of  the  heart ! — 
Who — as  the  beautiful  pageant  sweeps  by, 
Music  around  her,  and  sunshine  on  high, — 
Pauses  to  think,  amid  glitter  and  glow, 
Oh  !  there  be  hearts  that  are  breaking,  below  ! 

Night  on  the  waves ! — and  the  moon  is  on  high, 
Hung,  like  a  gem,  on  the  brow  of  the  sky  ; 
Treading  its  depths,  in  the  power  of  her  might, 
And  turning  the  clouds,  as  they  pass  her,  to  light ! 
Look  to  the  waters  ! — asleep  on  their  breast, 
Seems  not  the  ship  like  an  island  of  rest? 
Bright  and  alone  on  the  shadowy  main, 
Like  a  heart-cherish'd  home  on  some  desolate  plain! 
Who — as  she  smiles  in  the  silvery  light, 
Spreading  her  wings  on  the  bosom  of  night, 
Alone  on  the  deep, — as  the  moon  in  the  sky, — 
A  phantom  of  beauty ! — could  deem,  with  a  sigh, 
That  so  lovely  a  thing  is  the  mansion  of  sin, 
And  souls  that  are  smitten  lie  bursting,  within  ! 
Who — as  he  watches  her  silently  gliding, — 
Remembers  that  wave  after  wave  is  dividing 
Bosoms  that  sorrow  and  guilt  could  not  sever, 
Hearts  that  are  parted  and  broken  for  ever ! 
Or  deems  that  he  watches,  afloat  on  the  wave, 
The  death-bed  of  hope,  or  the  young  spirit's  grave  ! 

'T  is  thus  with  oar  life,  while  it  passes  along, 
Like  a  vessel  at  sea,  amid  sunshine  and  song  ! 
Gayly  we  glide,  in  the  glaze  of  the  world, 
With  streamers  afloat,  and  with  canvass  unfurl'd ; 
All  gladness  and  glory  to  wandering  eyes, 
Yet  charter'd  by  sorrow,  and  freighted  with  sighs ! — 
Fading  and  false  is  the  aspect  it  wears, 
As  the  smiles  we  put  on — just  to  cover  our  tears ; 
And  the  withering  thoughts  which  the  world  can- 
not know, 

Like  heart-broken  exiles,  lie  burning  below ; 
While  the  vessel  drives  on  to  that  desolate  shore 
Where  the  dreams  of  our  childhood  are  vanish'd 
and  o'er ! 


I  AM  ALL  ALONE. 

I  AM  all  alone !  and  the  visions  that  play 
Round  life's  young  days,  have  pass'd  away ; 
And  the  songs  are  hush'd  that  gladness  sings ; 
And  the  hopes  that  I  cherish'd  have  made  them 

wings ; 

And  the  light  of  my  heart  is  dimm'd  and  gone, 
And  I  sit  in  my  sorrow, — and  all  alone ! 

And  the  forms  which  I  fondly  loved  are  flown, 
And  friends  have  departed — one  by  one ; 
And  memory  sits,  whole  lonely  hours, 
And  weaves  her  wreath  of  hope's  faded  flowers, 
And  weeps  o'er  the  chaplet,  when  no  one  is  near 
To  gaze  on  her  grief,  or  to  chide  her  tear ! 

And  the  home  of  my  childhood  is  distant  far, 
And  I  walk  in  a  land  where  strangers  are ;     [hear 
And  the  looks  that  I  meet  and  the  sounds  that  I 
Are  not  light  to  my  spirit,  nor  song  to  my  ear ; 
And  sunshine  is  round  me,  which  I  cannot  see, 
And  eyes  that  beam  kindness,  but  not  for  me  ! 

And  the  song  goes  round,  and  the  glowing  smile, 

But  I  am  desolate  all  the  while ! 

And  faces  are  bright  and  bosoms  glad, 

And  nothing,  I  think,  but  my  heart,  is  said  ! 

And  I  seem  like  a  blight  in  a  region  of  bloom, 

While  I  dwell  in  my  own  little  circle  of  gloom ! 

I  wander  about,  like  a  shadow  of  pain,  [brain ; 
With  a  worm  in  my  breast,  and  a  spell  on  my 
And  I  list,  with  a  start,  to  the  gushing  of  gladness, — 
Oh !  how  it  grates  on  a  bosom  all  sadness  ! — 
So,  I  turn  from  a  world  where  I  never  was  known, 
To  sit  in  my  sorrow, — and  all  alone ! 


TO  MARY. 

THE  eye  must  be  dark  that  so  long  has  been  dim, 

Ere  again  it  may  gaze  upon  thine  ; 
But  my  heart  has  revealings  of  thee  and  thy  home, 

In  many  a  token  and  sign  : 
I  need  but  look  up  with  a  vow  to  the  sky, 

And  a  light  like  thy  beauty  is  there ; 
And  I  hear  a  low  murmur  like  thine  in  reply, 

When  I  pour  out  my  spirit  in  prayer. 

And  though,  like  a  mourner  that  sits  by  a  tomb, 

I  am  wrapp'd  in  the  mantle  of  care, 
Yet  the  grief  of  my  bosom — oh,  call  it  not  gloom! — 

Is  not  the  dark  grief  of  despair. 
By  sorrow  reveal'd,  as  the  stars  are  by  night, 

Far  off  a  bright  vision  appears ; 
A  hope — like  the  rainbow — a  being  of  light, 

Is  born,  like  the  rainbow,  in  tears. 

I  know  thou  art  gone  to  the  home  of  thy  rest ; 

Then  why  should  my  soul  be  so  sad  1 
I  know  thou  art  gone  where  the  weary  are  blest, 

And  the  mourner  looks  up  and  is  glad ; — 
Where  love  has  put  off,  in  the  land  of  its  birth, 

The  stain  it  had  gather'd  in  this, 
And  hope,  the  sweet  singer  that  gladden'd  the  earth, 

Lies  asleep  on  the  bosom  of  bliss. 
2N 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


AMERICAN  readers  have  as  yet  seen  but  few 
of  the  productions  of  this  lady,  but  she  has 
already  made  herself  a  home  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people ;  a  proof  that  the  popular  taste 
does  not  lie  altogether  in  the  direction  of  sing- 
song echoes,  sickly  sentiment,  or  empty  blank 
verse ;  and  a  proof,  too,  in  her  own  case,  that 
the  most  varied  acquirements  of  learning  do 
not  impair  the  subtlest  delicacy  of  thought 
and  feeling. 

Miss  BARRETT,  in  her  earlier  works  and  first 
adventurous  attempts,  is  the  poetess  of  angels 
and  seraphim,  breathing  a  rare  and  elevated 
atmosphere,  too  rare  for  habitual  contempla- 
tion. In  her  later  style,  she  is  the  sweet  poet- 
ess of  meditation  and  thought,  of  a  deep  and 
pure  spirituality,  of 

Philosophy,  baptized 

In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love. 

Compare  the  eloquence  of  her  poem  entitled 
"  Cowper's  Grave,"  with  what  generally 
passes  for  Byronic  eloquence,  and  mark  the 
difference.  Here  is  thought  compact  and 
close,  enthusiasm  fresh  from  the  heart,  noble 
domestic  incident,  and  sorrow  as  gentle  and  as 
mild  as  ever  breathed  from  a  human  bosom. 
Mark  the  pathos,  the  tenderness,  the  deep 
sympathy  in  the  poem,  "  The  Sleep." 

Miss  BARRETT'S  productions  are  unique  in 
this  age  of  lady  authors.  They  have  the 
"  touch  of  nature,"  in  common  with  the  best; 
they  have,  too,  sentiment,  passion,  and  fancy 
in  the  highest  degree,  without  any  imitation 
of  NORTON,  HEMANS,  or  LANDON.  Her  ex- 
cellence is  her  own;  her  mind  is  coloured 
by  what  it  feeds  on ;  the  fine  tissue  of  her 
flowing  style  comes  to  us  from  the  loom  of 
Grecian  thought.  She  is  the  learned  poetess 
of  the  day,  familiar  with  HOMER  and  ^ESCHY- 
LUS  and  SOPHOCLES  ;  and  to  the  musings  of 
Tempe  she  has  added  the  inspiration  of  Chris- 
tianity, "above  all  Greek,  all  Roman  fame." 
She  has  translated  the  Prometheus,  to  the 
delight  of  scholars,  and  has  contributed  a 
series  of  very  valuable  prose  papers  "  On  the 
Poetry  of  the  Early  Church,"  to  the  London 
"Athenaeum."  Her  reading  Greek  recalls  to 
us  ROGER  ASCHAM'S  anecdote  of  Lady  JANE 

422 


GREY  ;  but  Lady  JANE  GREY  has  left  us  no 
such  verses. 

A  striking  characteristic  of  Miss  BARRETT'S 
verse,  is  its  prevailing  seriousness,  approach- 
ing to  solemnity — a  garb  borrowed  from  the 
"  sceptred  pall"  of  her  favourite  Greek  drama 
of  fate.  She  loses  much  with  the  general 
reader,  by  a  dim  mysticism  ;  but  many  of 
her  later  poems  are  entirely  free  from  any  such 
defect.  The  great  writers  whom  she  loves 
will  teach  her  the  plain,  simple,  universal 
language  of  poetry. 

Her  dreams  and  abstractions,  though  "  ca- 
viare to  the  generale,"  have  their  admirers, 
who  will  ever  find  in  pure  and  elevated  phi- 
losophy, expressed  in  the  words  of  enthusiasm, 
the  living  presence  of  poetry.  On  Parnassus 
there  are  many  groves :  far  from  the  dust  of 
the  highway,  embosomed  in  twilight  woods, 
that  seem  to  symbol  Reverence  and  Faith 
trusting  on  the  unseen,  we  may  hear,  in  the 
whispering  of  the  trees,  the  wavering  breath 
of  insect  life,  the  accompaniment  of  our  poet's 
strain.  Despise  not  dreams  and  reveries. 
With  COWLEY,  Miss  BARRETT  vindicates  her- 
self. The  father  of  poets  tells  us,  even 
dreams,  too,  are  from  God." 

Miss  BARRETT  has  published  two  volumes 
of  poetry,  "  Prometheus  Bound,  and  Miscel- 
laneous Poems,"  in  1833,  and  "  The  Seraphim 
and  other  Poems,"  in  1838;  and  we  understand 
that  she  has  a  forthcoming  volume  in  the 
press.  It  will  be  a  welcome  one  to  all  lovers 
of  true  poetry. 

In  our  judgment,  Miss  BARRETT  is  destined, 
in  due  time,  to  take  her  place  at  the  head  of 
the  female  poets  of  Great  Britain.  The  noble 
ardour  with  which  she  writes,  makes  us 
believe  that  this  new  volume  will  go  far 
toward  determining  the  question. 

Of  her  personal  history,  we  know  very  lit- 
tle. She  resides  in  London,  and  is  one  of  the 
stars  in  a  brilliant  constellation  of  scholars, 
philosophers,  and  poets.  She  was  a  contribu- 
tor, with  WORDSWORTH,  HUNT,  and  HORNE,  to 
"  Chaucer  Modernized,"  and  besides  her  prose 
writings  in  "  The  Athenaeum,"  has  written  for 
that  admirable  gazette  some  of  her  finest  poems. 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


423 


COWPER'S  GRAVE. 


I  will  invite  thee,  from  thy  envious  herse 

To  rise,  and  'bout  the  world  thy  beams  to  spread, 

That  \ve  may  see  there 's  brightnesse  in  the  dead. 

HABINOTON. 


IT  is  a  place  where  poets  crown'd 

May  feel  the  heart's  decaying — 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints 

May  weep  amid  their  praying — 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness 

As  low  as  silence  languish ; 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm 

To  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

O  poets !  from  a  maniac's  tongue 

Was  pour'd  the  deathless  singing ! 
O  Christians  !   at  your  cross  of  hope 

A  hopeless  hand  was  clinging ! 
O  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood, 

Your  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groan'd  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 

And  died  while  ye  were  smiling ! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 

Through  dimming  tears  his  story 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell, 

And  darkness  on  the  glory — 
And  how,  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds 

And  wandering  lights  departed, 
He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face, 

Because  so  broken-hearted. 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify 

The  poet's  high  vocation, 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down 

In  meeker  adoration : 
-  Nor  ever  shall  he  be  in  praise 

By  wise  or  good  forsaken  ; 
Named  softly,  as  the  household  name 

Of  one  whom  God  hath  taken  ! 

With  sadness  that  is  calm,  not  gloom, 

I  learn  to  think  upon  him  ; 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness, 

On  God,  whose  heaven  hath  won  him — 
Who  suffer' d  once  the  madness-cloud 

Towards  His  love  to  blind  him  ; 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along, 

Where  breath  and  bird  could  find  him ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shatter'd  brain 

Such  quick  poetic  senses, 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars 

Harmonious  influences  ! 
The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass 

His  own  did  calmly  number ; 
And  silent  shadow  from  the  trees 

Fell  o'er  him  like  a  slumber. 

The  very  world,  by  God's  constraint, 
From  falsehood's  chill  removing, 

Its  women  arid  its  men  became 
Beside  him  true  and  loving! — 


And  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 

To  share  his  home-caresses, 
Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes, 

With  sylvan  tendernesses. 

But  while  in  blindness  he  remain'd, 

Unconscious  of  the  guiding, 
And  things  provided  came  without 

The  sweet  sense  of  providing, 
He  testified  this  solemn  truth, 

Though  frenzy  desolated, — 
Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy 

Whom  only  God  created  ! 

Like  a  sick  child,  that  knoweth  not 

His  mother  while  she  blesses, 
And  droppeth  on  his  burning  brow 

The  coolness  of  her  kisses  ; 
That  turns  his  fever'd  eyes  around — 

"  My  mother  !  where 's  my  mother  ]" — 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  looks 

Could  come  from  any  other  ! — 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart 

He  sees  her  bending  o'er  him ; 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love, 

Th'  un  weary  love  she  bore  him — 
Thus,  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream 

His  life's  long  fever  gave  him, 
Beneath  those  deep  pathetic  «yes 

Which  closed  in  death  to  save  him  ! 

Thus !  oh,  not  thus  !   no  type  of  earth 

Could  image  that  awaking, 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant 

Of  seraphs  round  him  breaking — 
Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb 

Of  soul  from  body  parted  ; 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew 

"My  Saviour!  not  deserted  !" 

Deserted  !  who  hath  dreamt  that  when 

The  cross  in  darkness  rested, 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face 

No  love  was  manifested  1 
What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er 

Th'  atoning  drops  averted — 
What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the  soul- 

That  one  should  be  deserted  ! 

Deserted  !  God  could  separate 

From  His  own  essence  rather  : 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between 

The  righteous  Son  and  Father — 
Yea-!  once,  Immanuel's  orphan'd  cry 

His  universe  hath  shaken — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless, 

"  My  God,  I  am  forsaken  !" 

It  went  np  from  the  Holy's  lips 

Amid  his  lost  creation, 
That  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use 

Those  words  of  desolation  ; 
That  earth's  worst  frenzies,  marring  hope, 

Should  mar  not  hope's  fruition  : 
And  T,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see 

His  rapture,  in  a  vision  ! 


424 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


NAPOLEON'S  RETURN. 

NAPOLEOX  !    years  ago,  and  that  great  word, 
Compact  of  human  breath  in  hate  and  dread 
And  exultation,  skied  us  overhead — 
An  atmosphere,  whose  lightning  was  the  sword, 
Scathing  the  cedars  of  the  world,  drawn  down 
In  burnings,  by  the  metal  of  a  crown. 

Napoleon  !  Foemen,  while  they  cursed  that  name, 
Shook  at  their  own  curse ;  and  while  others  bore 
Its  sound,  as  of  a  trumpet,  on  before, 
Brass-fronted  legions  followed,  sure  of  fame — 
And  dying  men,  from  trampled  battle-sods, 
Near  their  last  silence,  utter'd  it  for  God's. 

Napoleon  !  Sages  with  high  foreheads  droop'd, 
Did  use  it  for  a  problem ;  children  small 
Leapt  up  as  hearing  in 't  their  manhood's  call  : 
Priests  bless'd  it  from  their  altars,  overstoop'd 
By  meek-eyed  Christs, — and  widows  with  a  moan 
Breathed  it,  when  question'd  why  they  sate  alone. 

And  this  name  brake  the  silence  of  the  snows 
In  Alpine  keeping,  holy  and  cloud-hid ! 
The  mimic  eagles  dared  what  nature's  did, 
And  over-rush'd  her  mountainous  repose 
In  search  of  eyries :  and  th'  Egyptian  river 
Mingled  the  same  word  with  its  grand  "  for  ever." 

Yea!  this,  they  shouted  near  the  pyramidal 
Egyptian  tombs,  whose  mummied  habitants, 
Pack  d  to  humanity's  significance, 
Motion'd  them  back  with  stillness  !    Shouts  as  idle 
As  the  hired  artists'  work — in  myrrh  and  spice, 
Swathing  last  glories  round  the  Ptolemies. 

The  world's  face  changed  to  hear  it.     Kingly  men 
Came  down,  in  chidden  babes'  bewilderment, 
From  autocratic  places- — each  content 
With  sprinkled  ashes  for  anointing  ! — then 
The  people  laugh'd,  or  wonder'd  for  the  nonce, 
To  see  one  throne  a  composite  of  thrones. 

Napoleon  !     The  cavernous  vastitude 

Of  India  felt,  in  motions  of  the  air, 

The  name  which  scatter'd  in  a  ruining  blare 

All  Europe's  landmarks,  drawn  afresh  in  blood ! 

Napoleon  !  from  the  Russias,  west  to  Spain  ! 

And  Austria  trembled — till  we  heard  her  chain. 

And  Germany  was  'ware — and  Italy 
Forgot  her  own  name  so — her  laurel-lock'd, 
High-ghosted  Ca3sars  passing  uninvoked, — 
She  crumbled  her  own  ruins  with  her  knee, 
To  serve  a  newer  !  But  theGaulmen  cast 
A  future  from  them,  nobler  than  her  past. 

For,  verily,  though  Gaul  augustly  rose 
With  that  raised  name,  and  did  assume  by  such 
The  purple  of  the  world,  none  gave  so  much 
As  she,  in  purchase — to  speak  ]>!  tin,  in  lose — 
Whose  hands  to  freedom  stretoh'd,  dropped  para- 
lyzed 
To  wield  a  sword,  or  fit  an  undersized 


King's  crown  to  a  great  man's  head  !    And  though 

along 

Her  Paris  streets,  did  float  on  frequent  streams 
Of  triumph,  pictured  or  enmarbled  dreams, 
Dreamt  right  by  genius  in  a  world  gone  wrong, 
No  dream  of  all,  was  beautiful  to  see, 
As  the  lost  vision  of  her  liberty. 

Napoleon  !  't  was  a  high  name  lifted  high  ! 

It  met  at  last  God's  thunder, — sent  to  clear 

Our  compassing  and  covering  atmosphere, 

And  open  a  clear  sight,  beyond  the  sky, 

Of  supreme  empire  !     This  of  earth's  was  done — 

And  kings  crept  out  again  to  feel  the  sun. 

The  kings  crept  out — the  people  sate  at  home, — 

And  finding  the  long-advocated  peace 

A  pall  embroider'd  with  worn  images 

Of  rights  divine,  too  scant  to  cover  doom, — - 

Gnawed  their  own  hearts,  or  else  the  corn  that  grew 

Rankly,  to  bitter  bread,  on  Waterloo  ! 

A  deep  gloom  center'd  in  the  deep  repose — 
The  nations  stood  up  mute  to  count  their  dead — 
The  bearer  of  the  name  which  vibrated 
Through  silence, — trusting  to  his  noblest  foes, 
When  earth  was  all  too  gray  for  chivalry — 
Died  of  their  mercies,  midst  the  desert  sea. 

O  wild  St.  Helen  !  very  still  she  kept  him, 
With  a  green  willow  for  all  pyramid, 
Stirring  a  little  if  the  low  wind  did, — 
More  rarely,  if  some  pilgrim  overwept  him 
And  parted  the  lithe  boughs,  to  see  the  clay 
Which  seem'd  to  cover  his  for  judgment-day. 

Nay  !  not  so  long  !  France  kept  her  old  affection, 

As  deeply  as  the  sepulchre  the  corse, — 

And  now,  dilated  by  that  love's  remorse 

To  a  new  angel  of  the  resurrection, 

She  cries,  "  Behold,  thou  England,  I  would  have 

The  dead  thou  wottest  of,  from  out  that  grave." 

And  England  answers  in  the  courtesy 
Which,  ancient  foes  turnM  lovers,  may  befit — , 
"  Take  back  thy  dead  !  and  when  thou  buriest  it, 
Throw  in  all  former  strifes  'twixt  thee  and  me." 
Arnen,  mine  England  !  'tis  a  courteous  claim — 
But  ask  a  little  room  too  ...  for  thy  shame! 

Because  it  was  not  well,  it  was  not  well, 
Nor  tuneful  with  thy  lofty-chanted  part 
Among  the  Oceanides.  that  heart 
To  bind  and  bare,  and  vex  with  vulture  fell. 
O  mine  own  England  !   would,  we  had  to  seek 
All  crimson  stains  upon  thy  breast — not  cheek ! 

Would  hostile  fleets  had  searrM  thy  bay  of  Tor, 
Instead  of  the  lone  ship,  which  waited  here 
Until  thy  princely  purpose  should  be  clear, 
Then  left  a  shadow — to  pass  out  no  more ! 

Not  for  the  moonlight. not  for  a  noontide  snn  ! 

Green  watching  hills,  ye  witness'd  what  was  done ! 

But  since  it  was  done. — in  sepulchral  dust, 
We  fain  would  pay  back  something  of  our  debt 
To  Gaul,  if  not  to  honour,  and  fnroret 
How,  through  much  fear,  we  falsified  the  trust 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


425 


Of  a  fall'n  foe  and  exile  !     We  return 
Orestes  to  Electra  ...  in  his  urn  ! 

A  little  urn — a  little  dust  inside, 

Which  once  outbalanced  the  large  earth, — albeit 

To-day,  a  four  years  child  might  carry  it, 

Sleek-brow'd,  and  smiling  "Let  the  burden  'bide !" 

Orestes  to  Electra  !     O  fair  town 

Of  Paris,  how  the  wild  tears  will  run  dovwn, 

And  run  back  in  the  chariot-marks  of  time, 
When  all  the  people  shall  come  forth  to  meet 
The  passive  victor,  death-still  in  the  street 
He  rode  through  mid  the  shouting  and  bell-chime 
And  martial  music, — under  eagles  which 
Dyed  their  ensanguined  beaks  at  Austerlitz  ! 

Napoleon  !  he  hath  come  again — borne  home 
Upon  the  popular  ebbing  heart, — a  sea 
Which  gathers  its  own  wrecks  perpetually, 
Majestically  moaning.     Give  him  room  ! 
Room  for  the  dead  in  Paris  !     Welcome  solemn 
And  grave-deep,  'neath  the  cannon-moulded  co- 
lumn ! 

There,  weapon  spent  and  warrior  spent  may  rest 

From  roar  of  fields  !  provided  Jupiter 

Dare  trust  Saturnus  to  lie  down  so  near 

His  bolts !     And  this  he  may  do,  since  possess'd 

(To  wave  th'  imperial  phantom  from  the  throne) 

Of  that  one  capable  sword  . . .  Napoleon's  own  ! 

Napoleon  !     Once  more  the  recover'd  name 
Shakes  the  old  casements  of  the  world  !  and  we 
Look  out  upon  the  passing  pageantry. 
Attesting  that  the  dead  makes  good  his  claim 
To  a  Gaul  grave, — another  kingdom  won — 
The  last — of  few  spans — by  Napoleon  ! 

Blood  fell  like  dew  beneath  his  sunrise — sooth  ! 
But  also  glitter'd  dew-like  in  the  slanted 
High-rayed  light.     He  was  a  tyrant — granted  ! 
But  th'  Autos  of  his  autocratic  mouth 
Said  "  Yea"  i'  the  people's  French !    He  multiplied 
The  image  of  the  freedom  he  denied. 

And  if  they  ask'd  for  «  rights,"  he  made  reply, 
"  Ye  have  my  glory  !"  and  so,  drawing  round  them 
His  ample  purple,  glorified  and  bound  them 
In  an  embrace  that  seem'd  identity. 
He  ruled  them  like  a  tyrant — true  !  but  none 
Were  ruled  like  slaves  !     Each  felt  Napoleon  ! 

I  do  not  praise  this  man — the  man  was  flaw'd, 
For  Adam — much  more,  Christ ! — his  knee,  un- 
bent— 
His  hand,  unclean — his  aspiration,  pent  [had 

Within  a  sword-sweep Pshaw  ! — But  since  he 

The  genius  to  be  loved,    why  let  him  have 
The  justice  to  be  honour'd  in  his  grave. 

I  think  a  nation's  tears,  pour'd  thus  together, 
More  rare  than  shouts  !     I  think  this  funeral   [all, 
More  grand  than  crownings,  though  a  Pope  bless 
I  think  this  grave  more  strong  than  thrones  !     But 

whether 

The  crown'd  Napoleon  or  his  senseless  dust 

Be  worth  more,  I  discern  not — angels  must. 

54 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers  ! 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ]         mothers, 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against  their 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  in  the  shadows, 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  from  the  west ; 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers  ! 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  their  sorrow, 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  long  ago. 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost ; 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost ! 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers ! 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 

In  our  happy  fatherknd  ! 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see  ; 
For  the  man's  grief  untimely  draws  and  presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy. 
"  Your  old  earth,"  they  say,  "  is  very  dreary  ;" 

"  Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "  are  very  weak  ! 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek  ! 
Ask  the  old  why  they  weep,  arid  not  the  children, 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold,  ['ring, 

And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our  bevvild- 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

"  True."  say  the  young  children,  "  it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time  ! 
Little  Alice  died  last  year, — the  grave  is  shapen 

Like  a  snow-ball,  in  the  rime. 
We  laok'd  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her, 

Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close  clay  ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will  wake  her, 

Crying — <  Get  up,  little  Alice,  it  is  day  !' 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave  in  sun  and  shower, 

With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never  cries ; 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not 
know  her,  [eyes. 

For  the  new  smile  which  has  grown  within  her 
For  merry  go  her  moments,  lull'd  and  still'd  in 

The  shroud,  by  the  kirk  chime  ! 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  children, 

"  That  we  die  before  our  time  !" 

Alas,  the  young  children  !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have !  [inS> 

They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from  break- 
With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 

Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from  the  city, 
Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes  do ! 

Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow  cowslips  pretty, 


426 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


Laugh  aloud  to  feel  your  fingers  let  them  through! 
But  the  children  say,  "Are  cowslips  of  the  meadows 

Like  the  weeds  anear  the  mine  1* 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  our  coal  shadows 

From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine. 

"  For  oh  !"  say  the  children,  "  we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap  : 
If  we,  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 

We  fall  on  our  face  trying  to  go  ; 
And  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flowers  would  look  as  pale  as  snow  ; 
For  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring, 

Through  the  coal-dark  underground, 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iror 

In  the  factories  round  and  round. 

"  All  day  long  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning, 
Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces  !  [burning, 

Till  our  hearts  turn,  and  our  heads  with  pulses 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places  !  [ing, 

Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and  reel- 
Turns  the  long  light  that  droopeth  down  the  wall, 

Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the  ceiling, 
Are  all  turning  all  the  day,  and  we  with  all ! 

All  day  long,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 
And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 

<  0  ye  wheels  (breaking  off  in  a  mad  moaning,) 
Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  !'  " 

Ay,  be  silent !  let  them  hear  each  other  breathing, 
For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  ;       [wreathing 

Let  them  touch   each   other's  hands,  in  a  fresh 
Of  their  tender  human  youth  ; 

Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is  not  all  the  life  God  giveth  them  to  feel ; 

Let  them  prove  their  inward  souls  against  the  notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O  wheels  ! 

Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

As  if  fate  in  each  were  stark  !  [ward, 

And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling  sun- 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell  the  weary  children,  O  my  brothers ! 

That  they  look  to  Him  and  pray, 
For  the  bless'd  One  who  blesseth  all  the  others, 

To  bless  them  another  day.  [us," 

They  answer — "  Who  is  God  that  He  should  hear 

While  this  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is  stirr'd  .' 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures  near  us 

Pass  unhearing — at  least,  answer  not  a  word ; 
And  we  hear  not^for  the  wheels  in  their  resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door. 
Is  it  likely  God  with  angels  singing  round  Him, 

Hears  our  weeping  any  more  1 

Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  remember  ; 

And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
"  Our  Father  /"  looking  upward  in  our  chamber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm.j- 

*  A  commissioner  mentions  the  fact  of  weeds  being  thus 
confounded  with  the  idea  of  flowers. 

t  The  report  of  the  commissioners  present  repeated  in- 
stances of  children,  whose  religion's  devotion  is  confined 
to  the  repetition  of  the  two  first  words  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer. 


We  say  no  other  words  except  «  Our  Father  .'" 

And  we  think  that,  in  some  pause  of  angels'  song, 
He  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence    sweet  to 
gather, 

And  hold  both  in  His  right  hand,  which  is  strong. 
Our  Father/    If  He  heard  us,  He  would  surely — 

For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild — 
Answer^  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very  purely, 

"  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child." 

"  But  no,"  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 

"  He  is  silent  as  a  stone  ; 
And  they  tell  us,  of  His  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on." 
"  Go  to  !"  say  the  children  ;  "  up  in  Heaven, 

Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all  we  find  ! 
Do  not  mock  us  !  we  are  atheists  in  our  grieving, 

We  look  to  him — but  tears  have  made  us  blind .'" 
Do  you  hear  children  weeping  and  disproving, 

O  my  brothers,  what  ye  teach? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's  loving, 

And  the  children  doubt  of  each  ! 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  ye, 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run  ! 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the  glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun  ! 
They  know  the  grief  of  men,  but  not  the  wisdom, 

They  sink  in  their  despair,  with  hope  at  calm, 
Are  slaves  without  liberty  in  Christdom, 

Are  martyrs  by  the  pang  without  the  palm  ! 
Are  worn  as  if  with  age  ;  yet  unretrievingly 

No  joy  of  memory  keep, 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly, 

Let  them  weep,  let  them  weep  ! 

They  look  up;  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see ; 
For  you  think  you  see  their  angels  in  their  places, 

With  eyes  meant  for  Deity. 
"  How  long,"  they  say,  "how  long,  O  cruel  nation! 

Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a  child's 

heart  ? 
Trample  down  with  mailed  heel  its  palpitation, 

And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid  the  mart  ] 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  our  tyrants  ! 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path," 
But  the  child's  sob  curseth  deeper  in  the  silence 

Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath  ! 

SERAPH  AND  POET. 

THE  seraph  sings  before  the  manifest 

God-one,  and  in  the  burning  of  the  Seven  ; 

And  with  the  full  life  of  consummate  heaven 
Heaving  beneath  him,  like  a  mother's  breast, 
W'arm  with  her  first-born's  slumber  in  that  nest : 

The  poet  sings  upon  the  earth,  grave-riven, 

Before  the  naughty  world,  soon  self-forgiven 
For  wronging  him.  and  in  the  darknfss  prest 

From  his  own  soul  by  worldly  weights.  Even  so, 
Sing,  seraph,  with  the  glory  !     Heaven  is  high  ! 

Sing,  poet,  with  the  sorrow  !     Earth  is  low  ! 
The  universe's  inward  voices  cry 

"Amen"  to  either  voice  of  joy  and  wo. 
Sing,  poet,  seraph — sing  on  equally. 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


427 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  ROSE. 

" discordance  that  can  accord  ; 

And  accordance  to  discord."  \ 

THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE. 

A  ROSE  once  passed  within 

A  garden  April-green, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
And  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

A  white  rose,  delicate, 

On  a  tall  bough  and  straight, — 

Early  comer,  April  comer, 

Never  waiting  for  the  summer ; 

Whose  pretty  gates  did  win 

South  winds  to  let  her  in, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

"  For  if  I  wait,"  said  she, 

"  Till  times  for  roses  be, — 
For  the  musk  rose,  and  the  moss  rose, 
Royal  red  and  maiden  blush  rose, — 

"  What  glory  then  for  me, 

In  such  a  company  ] 
Roses  plenty,  roses  plenty, 
And  one  nightingale  for  twenty ! 

"  Nay,  let  me  in,"  said  she, 

"  Before  the  rest  are  free, 
In  my  loneness,  in  my  loneness, 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness.    • 

"  For  I  would  lonely  stand, 

Uplifting  my  white  hand, 
On  a  mission,  on  a  mission, 
To  declare  the  coming  vision. 

"  See  mine,  a  holy  heart, 

To  high  ends  set  apart, — 
All  unmated,  all  unmated, 
Because  so  consecrated. 

"  Upon  which  lifted  sign, 

What  worship  will  be  mine  ! 
What  addressing,  what  caressing, 
What  thanks  and  praise  and  blessing  ! 

"  A  wind-like  joy  will  rush 

Through  every  tree  and  bush, 
Bending  softly  in  affection, 
And  spontaneous  benediction. 

"  Insects,  that  only  may 

Live  in  a  sunbright  ray, 
To  my  whiteness,  to  my  whiteness 
Shall  be  drawn,  as  to  a  brightness. 

"  And  every  moth  and  bee 

Shall  near  me  reverently, 
Wheeling  round  me,  wheeling  o'er  me 
Coronals  of  motion'd  glory. 

"  I  ween  the  very  skies 

Will  look  down  in  surprise, 
When  low  on  earth  they  see  me, 
With  my  cloudy  aspect  dreamy. 


"  Ten  nightingales  shall  flee 
Their  woods,  for  love  of  me, — 
Singing  sadly  all  the  suntide. 
Never  waiting  for  the  moon  tide  ! 

«  Three  larks  shall  leave  a  cloud, 
To  my  whiter  beauty  vow'd, — 
Singing  gladly  all  the  moontide, 
Never  waiting  for  the  suntide." 

So  praying  did  she  win 
South  winds  to  let  her  in, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
And  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

But  out,  alas  for  her ! 

No  thing  did  minister 
To  her  praises,  to  her  praises, 
More  than  might  unto  a  daisy's. 

No  tree  nor  bush  was  seen 

To  boast  a  perfect  green, 
Scarcely  having,  scarcely  having 
One  leaf  broad  enow  for  waving. 

The  little  flies  did  crawl 

Along  the  southern  wall, 
Faintly  shifting,  faintly  shifting 
Wings  scarce  strong  enow  for  lifting. 

The  nightingale  did  please 

To  loiter  beyond  seas. 
Guess  him  in  the  happy  islands, 
Learning  music  from  the  silence. 

The  lark,  too  high  or  low, 

Did  haply  miss  her  so — 
With  his  nest  down  in  the  gorses, 
And  his  song  in  the  star-courses ! 

Only  the  bee,  forsooth, 
Came  in  the  place  of  both — 
Doing  honour,  doing  honour 
To  the  honey-dews  upon  her. 

The  skies  looked  coldly  down 

As  on  a  royal  crown  ; 
Then,  drop  by  drop,  at  leisure, 
Began  to  rain  for  pleasure  ; 

Whereat  the  earth  did  seem 

To  waken  from  a  dream  ; 
Winter  frozen,  winter  frozen, 
Her  unquiet  eyes  unclosing — 

Said  to  the  rose,  "  Ha,  Snow  ! 

And  art  thou  fallen  so  1 
Thou  who  wert  enthroned  stately 
Along  my  mountains  lately  ! 

"  Holla,  thou  world-wide  snow  ! 

And  art  thou  wasted  so  1 
With  a  little  bough  to  catch  thee, 
And  a  little  bee  to  watch  thee  !" 

Poor  rose,  to  be  unknown  ! 

Would  she  had  ne'er  been  blown, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
All  the  sadder  for  that  oneness. 


428 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


Some  word  she  tried  to  say, 

Some  sigh — ah,  wellaway  ! 
But  the  passion  did  o'ercome  her, 
And  the  fair  frail  leaves  dropp'd  from  her — 

Dropp'd  from  her,  fair  and  mute, 

Close  to  a  poet's  foot, 
Who  beheld  them,  smiling  lowly 
As  at  something  sad  yet  holy  : 

Said,  "Verily  and  thus 

So  chanceth  eke  with  us, 
Poets,  singing  sweetest  snatches, 
While  deaf  men  keep  the  watches — 

"Vaunting  to  come  before 

Our  own  age  evermore, 
In  a  loneness,  in  a  loneness, 
And  the  nobler  for  that  oneness ! 

"  But  if  alone  we  be, 

Where  is  our  empiry  7 
And  if  none  can  reach  our  stature, 
Who  will  mate  our  lofty  nature  7 

«  What  bell  will  yield  a  tone, 

Saving  in  the  air  alone  1 
If  no  brazen  clapper  bringing, 
Who  can  bear  the  chimed  ringing  7 

«  What  angel  but  would  seem 

To  sensual  eyes  glint-dim  7 
And  without  assimilation, 
Vain  is  interpenetration !  ^ 

"  Alas  !  what  can  we  do, 

The  rose  and  poet  too, 
Who  both  antedate  our  mission 
In  an  unprepared  season  ? 

"  Drop,  leaf — be  silent,  song — 

Cold  things  we  came  among ! 
We  must  warm  them,  we  must  warm  them, 
Ere  we  ever  hope  to  charm  them. 

"  Howbeit," — here  his  face 

Lightened  around  the  place, 
So  to  mark  the  outward  turning 
Of  his  spirit's  inward  burning — 

"  Something  it  is  to  hold 

In  God's  worlds  manifold, 
First  reveal'd  to  creatures'  duty, 
A  new  form  of  His  mild  beauty  ; 

«  Whether  that  form  respect 

The  sense  or  intellect, 
Holy  rest  in  soul  or  pleasance, 
The  chief  Beauty's  sign  of  presence. 

«  Holy  in  me  and  thee, 

Rose  fallen  from  the  tree, 
Though  the  world  stand  dumb  around  us, 
All  unable  to  expound  us. 

«  Though  none  us  deign  to  bless, 

Blessed  are  we  nathless  ; 
Blessed  age  and  consecrated, 
In  that,  Rose,  we  were  created  ! 

"  Oh,  shame  to  poets'  lays, 
Sung  for  the  dole  of  praise — 

Hoarsely  sung  upon  the  highway, 

With  an  'obolum  da  mihi  /' 


"  Shame,  shame  to  poet's  soul, 

Pining  for  such  a  dole, 
When  heaven-called  to  inherit 
The  high  throne  of  his  own  spirit ! 

"  Sit  still  upon  your  thrones, 

O  ye  poetic  ones  ! 
And  if,  sooth,  the  world  decry  you, 
Why,  let  that  same  world  pass  by  you ! 

"  Ye  to  yourselves  suffice, 

Without  its  flatteries ; 
Self-contentedly  approve  you 
Unto  Him  who  sits  above  you, 

« In  prayers  that  upward  mount, 

Like  to  a  sunned  fount, 
And,  in  gushing  back  upon  you, 
Bring  the  music  they  have  won  you ! 

"  In  thanks  for  all  the  good 

By  poets  understood — 
For  the  sound  of  seraphs  moving 
Through  the  hidden  depths  of  loving ; 

"  For  sights  of  things  away, 
Through  fissures  of  the  clay, — 

Promised  things,  which  shall  be  given 

And  sung  over  up  in  heaven  ! 

"  For  life,  so  lonely  vain, — 
For  death,  which  breaks  the  chain, — 
For  this  sense  of  present  sweetness, 
And  this  yearning  to  completeness  !" 


MY  DOVES. 
O  Weisheit !   Du  red'st  wie  eine  Taube  !     GOETHE. 

MY  little  doves  have  left  a  nest 

Upon  an  Indian  tree, 
Whose  leaves  fantastic  take  their  rest 

Or  motion  from  the  sea : 
For  ever  there,  the  sea-winds  go 
With  sunlit  paces,  to  and  fro. 

The  tropic  flowers  look'd  up  to  it, 
The  tropic  stars  look'd  down  : 

And  there  my  little  doves  did  sit, 
With  feathers  softly  brown, 

And  glittering  eyes,  that  show'd  their  right 

To  general  nature's  deep  delight. 

And  God  them  taught,  at  every  close 

Of  water  far,  and  wind, 
And  lifted  leaf,  to  interpose 

Their  chanting  voices  kind  ; 
Interpreting  that  love  must  be 
The  meaning  of  the  earth  and  sea. 

Fit  ministers  !      Of  living  loves, 
Their's  hath  the  calmest  sound — 

Their  living  voice  the  likest  moves 
To  lifeless  noises  round — 

In  such  sweet  monotone  as  clings 

To  music  of  insensate  things  ! 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


429 


My  little  doves  were  ta'en  away 
From  that  glad  nest  of  theirs, 

Across  an  ocean  foaming  aye, 
And  tempest-clouded  airs. 

My  little  doves  ! — who  lately  knew 

The  sky  and  wave,  by  warmth  and  blue ! 

And  now,  within  the  city  prison, 

In  mist  and  chillness  pent, 
With  sudden  upward  look  they  listen 

For  sounds  of  past  content — 
For  lapse  of  water,  swell  of  breeze, 
Or  nut-fruit  falling  from  the  trees. 

The  stir  without  the  glow  of  passion — 

The  triumph  of  the  mart — 
The  gold  and  silver's  dreary  clashing 

With  man's  metallic  heart — 
The  wheeled  pomp,  the  pauper  tread — 
These  only  sounds  are  heard,  instead. 

Yet  still,  as  on  my  human  hand 
Their  fearless  heads  they  lean, 

And  almost  seem  to  understand 
What  human  musings  mean — 

(With  such  a  plaintive  gaze  their  eyne 

Are  fasten'd  upwardly  to  mine  !) 

Their  chant  is  soft  as  in  the  nest, 

Beneath  the  sunny  sky  : 
For  love,  that  stirr'd  it  in  their  breast, 

Remains  undyingly, 
And,  'neath  the  city's  shade,  can  keep 
The  well  of  music  clear  and  deep. 

And  love,  that  keeps  the  music,  fills 

With  pastoral  memories  : 
All  echoings  from  out  the  hills, 

All  droppings  from  the  skies, 
All  flowings  from  the  wave  and  wind, 
Remember'd  in  their  chant  I  find. 

So  teach  ye  me  the  wisest  part, 

My  little  doves  !  to  move 
Along  the  city  ways,  with  heart 

Assured  by  holy  love, 
And  vocal  with  such  songs  as  own 
A  fountain  to  the  world  unknown. 

Twas  hard  to  sing  by  Babel's  stream — 
More  hard  in  Babel's  street ! 

But  if  the  soulless  creatures  deem 
Their  music  not  unmeet 

For  sunless  walls — let  us  begin, 

Who  wear  immortal  wings,  within  I 

To  me,  fair  memories  belong 
Of  scenes  that  erst  did  bless ; 

For  no  regret — but  present  song, 
And  lasting  thankfulness — 

And  very  soon  to  break  away, 

Like  types,  in  purer  things  than  they  ! 

I  will  have  hopes  that  cannot  fade, 
For  flowers  the  valley  yields — 

I  will  have  humble  thoughts,  instead 
Of  silent,  dewy  fields  ! 

My  spirit  and  my  God  shall  be 

My  seaward  hill,  my  boundless  sea ! 


ROMAUNT  OF   MARGRET. 


a  tree  whose  leaf 

The  cypress  leaf  will  suit  ; 
And  when  its  shade  is  o'er  you  laid, 

Turn  ye,  and  pluck  the  fruit  ! 
Now,  reach  mine  harp  from  off  the  wall, 

Where  shines  the  sun  aslant  : 
The  sun  may  shine  and  we  be  cold  — 
Oh  !  hearken,  loving  hearts  and  bold, 

Unto  my  wild  romaunt, 

Margret,  Margret  ! 

Sitteth  the  fair  ladye 

Close  to  the  river  side, 
Which  runneth  on  with  a  merry  tone, 

Her  merry  thoughts  to  guide. 
It  runneth  through  the  trees, 
It  runneth  by  the  hill  ;  — 
Nathless,  the  ladye's  thoughts  have  found 
A  way  more  pleasant  still.  — 

Margret,  Margret! 

The  night  is  in  her  hair, 

And  giveth  shade  to  shade  ; 
And  the  pale  moonlight  on  her  forehead  white, 

Like  a  spirit's  hand,  is  laid  :  — 
Her  lips  part  with  a  smile, 

Instead  of  speaking  done  — 
I  ween  she  thinketh  of  a  voice, 
Albeit  uttering  none  ! 

Margret,  Margret  ! 

All  little  birds  do  sit 

With  heads  beneath  their  wings  — 
Nature  doth  seem  in  a  mystic  dream, 

Apart  from  her  living  things. 
That  dream  by  that  ladye 

I  ween  is  unpartook  ; 
For  she  looketh  to  the  high  cold  stars, 
With  a  tender  human  look  ! 

Margret,  Margret  ! 

The  ladye's  shadow  lies 

Upon  the  running  river,  — 
It  lieth  no  less,  in  its  quietness, 

For  that  which  resteth  never  ; 
Most  like  a  trusting  heart 
Upon  a  passing  faith,  — 
Or  as,  upon  the  course  of  life, 

The  steadfast  doom  of  death  ! 

Margret,  Margret  ! 

The  ladye  doth  not  move  — 

The  ladye  doth  not  dream  — 
Yet  she  seeth  her  shade  no  longer  laid 

In  rest  upon  the  stream  ! 
It  shaketh  without  wind  — 
It  parteth  from  the  tide  — 
It  standeth  upright,  in  the  cleft  moonlight  — 
It  sitteth  at  her  side  ! 

Margret,  Margret  ! 

Look  in  its  face,  ladyo, 

And  keep  th.ee  from  thy  s  wound  ! 
With  a  spirit  bold  thy  pulses  hold, 
And  hear  its  voice's  sound  ! 


430 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


For  so  will  sound  thy  voice, 

When  thy  face  is  to  the  wall, — 
And  such  will  be  thy  face,  ladye, 

When  the  maidens  work  thy  pall — 
Margret,  Margret ! 

«  Am  I  not  like  to  thee  ?" — 

The  voice  was  calm  and  low — 
And  between  each  word  there  seemed  heard 

The  universe's  flow  ! — 
"  The  like  may  sway  the  like  ! 

By  which  mysterious  law, 
Mine  eyes  from  thine,  my  lips  from  thine, 
The  light  and  breath  may  draw, 

Margret,  Margret ! 

«  My  lips  do  need  thy  breath, 

My  lips  do  need  thy  smile, — 
And  my  pale  deep  eyne,  that  light  in  thine 

Which  met  the  stars  erewhile. — 
Yet  go,  with  light  and  life 

If  that  thou  lovest  one, 
In  all  the  earth,  who  loveth  thee 
More  truly  than  the  sun, 

Margret,  Margret !" 

Her  cheek  had  waxed  white 
As  cloud  at  fall  of  snow  ; 
Then,  like  to  one  at  set  of  sun, 

It  waxed  red  also  ! — 

For  love's  name  maketh  bold, 

As  if  the  loved  were  near : 

And  sighed  she  the  deep  long  sigh 

Which  cometh  after  fear. 

Margret,  Margret ! 

"  Now,  sooth,  I  fear  thee  not — 
Shall  never  fear  thee  now  !" 
(And  a  noble  sight  was  the  sudden  light 

Which  lit  her  lifted  brow  !) 
«  Can  earth  be  dry  of  streams, 

Or  hearts  of  love  1" — she  said ; 
«  Who  doubteth  love,  can  know  not  love, — 
He  is  already  dead  !" 

Margret,  Margret ! 

"  I  have" — and  here  her  lips 

Some  word  in  pause  did  keep ; 
And  gave,  the  while,  a  quiet  smile, 

As  if  they  paused  in  sleep  ! 
"  I  have — a  brother  dear, 

A  knight  of  knightly  fame ; 

I  broider'd  him  a  knightly  scarf 

With  letters  of  my  name." 

Margret,  Margret ! 

"I  fed  his  gray  goss-hawk, 

I  kissed  his  fierce  bloodhound, 
I  sate  at  home  when  he  might  come, 

And  caught  his  horn's  far  sound  : 
I  sang  him  songs  of  eld, 

I  pour'd  him  the  red  wine, 
He  looked  from  the  cup,  and  said, 
/  love  thee,  sister  mine  .'" 

Margret,  Margret ! 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass, 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter ! 


The  sounding  river,  which  rolled  ever, 
Stood  dumb  and  stagnant,  after. — 
"  Brave  knight  thy  brother  is  ! 

But  better  loveth  he 
Thy  poured  wine  than  chanted  song, — 
And  better  both,  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret !" 

The  ladye  did  not  heed 

The  river's  silence  ;  while 
Her  own  thoughts  still  ran  at  their  will, 

And  calm  was  still  her  smile. — 
"  My  little  sister  wears 

The  look  our  mother  wore  ; 
I  smooth  her  locks  with  a  golden  comb — 
I  bless  her  evermore  !" 

Margret,  Margret ! 

"I  gave  her  my  first  bird, 

When  first  my  voice  it  knew — 
I  made  her  share  my  posies  rare, 

And  told  her  where  they  grew. 
I  taught  her  God's  dear  name — 
God's  worthy  praise  to  tell : — 
She  look'd  from  heaven  into  my  face, 
And  said,  I  love  thee  well  /" 

Margret,  Margret ! 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass, 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter — 
You  could  see  each  bird,  as  it  woke,  and  starea 

Through  the  shrivell'd tree-leaves,  after! — 
«  Fair  child  thy  sister  is  ! 

But  better  loveth  she 

Thy  golden  comb  than  thy  posied  flowers — 
And  better  both,  than  thee, — 

Margret,  Margret!" 

The  ladye  did  not  heed 

The  withering  on  the  bough  : 
Still  calm  her  smile,  albeit,  the  while, 

A  little  pale  her  brow. — 
"I  have  a  father  old, 

The  lord  of  ancient  halls — 
A  hundred  friends  are  in  his  court, 
Yet  only  me  he  calls." 

Margret,  Margret ! 

«  A  hundred  knights  are  in  his  court ; 

Yet  read  I  by  his  knee  : 
And  when  forth  they  go  to  the  tourney  show, 

I  rise  not  up  to  see. 
'T  is  a  weary  book  to  read — 
My  trysts  at  set  of  sun : — 
But  dear  and  loving  'neath  the  stars, 
His'blessing  when  I've  done  !" 

Margret,  Margret ! 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass, 

With  a  low  shadowy  laughter — 
And  moon  and  star,  most  bright  and  far, 

Did  shrink  and  darken,  after. — 
"  High  lord  thy  father  is  ! 

But  better  loveth  he 

His  ancient  halls  than  hundred  friends, — 
His  ancient  halls  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret !" 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


431 


The  ladye  did  not  heed 

That  the  far  stars  did  fail- 
Still  calm  her  smile,  albeit,  the  while — 

Nay  ! — but  she  is  not  pale  ! — 
"  I  have  a  more  than  friend, 

Across  the  mountains  dim  : — 
No  other's  voice  is  soft  to  me, 
Unless  it  nameth  him  .'" 

Margret,  Margret ! 

"Though  louder  beats  mine  heart, 

I  know  his  tread  again ; 
And  his  far  plume  aye, — unless  turned  away, 

For  tears  do  blind  me,  then  ! 
We  brake  no  gold,  a  sign 
Of  stronger  faith  to  be  ; 
But  I  wear  his  last  look  in  my  soul, 
Which  said,  7  love  but  thee  /" 

Margret,  Margret ! 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass, 

With  a  low  shadowy  laughter — 
The  wind  did  toll,  as  a  passing  soul 

Were  sped  by  church-bell,  after  ! 
And  shadows,  'stead  of  light, 
Fell  from  the  stars  above, 
In  flakes  of  darkness  on  her  face, 
Still  bright,  with  trusting  love  ! 

Margret,  Margret! 

"  He  loved  none  but  thee  ! 

That  love  is  transient  too. 
The  wild  hawk's  bill  doth  dabble  still 
F  the  mouth  that  vowed  the  true. 
Will  he  open  his  dull  eyes, 

When  tears  fall  on  his  brow  1 
Behold  !  the  death-worm  to  his  heart 
Is  a  nearer  thing  than  thou  /" 
Margret,  Margret ! 

Her  face  was  on  the  ground — 

None  saw  the  agony  ! 
But  the  men  at  sea  did  that  night  agree 

They  heard  a  drowning  cry. 
And,  when  the  morning  brake, 

Fast  roll'd  the  river's  tide, 
With  the  green  trees  waving  overhead, 
And  a  white  corse  lain  beside. 

Margret,  Margret ! 

A  knight's  bloodhound  and  he 

The  funeral  watch  did  keep — 
With  a  thought  o'  the  chase  he  stroked  its  face, 

As  it  howl'd  to  see  him  weep. 
A  fair  child  kiss'd  the  dead, 

But  shrank  before  the  cold  ; 
And  alone,  yet  proudly,  in  his  hall       . 
Did  stand  a  baron  old. 

Margret,  Margret ! 

Hang  up  my  harp  again — 
I  have  no  voice  for  song ! 
Not  song,  but  wail — and  mourners  pale, 

Not  bards — to  love  belong  ! 
Oh,  failing  human  love  ! 

Oh,  light  by  darkness  known  ! 
Oh,  false,  the  while  thou  treadest  earth ! 
Oh,  deaf,  beneath  the  stone  ! 
Margret,  Margret ! 


Nay,  friends  !   no  name  but  His, 

Whose  name  as  Love  appears  ! 
Look  up  to  heaven,  as  God's  forgiven, 

And  see  it  not  for  tears ! 
Yet  see,  with  spicit-sight, 

Th'  eternal  Friend  undim, 
Who  died  for  love,  and  joins  above 
All  friends  who  love  in  Him — 
And  with  His  pierced  hands  may  He 
The  guardian  of  your  clasp'd  ones  be  ! — 
Which  prayer  doth  end  rny  lay  of  thee, 

Margret,  Margret ! 


THE  DESERTED  GARDEN. 

Since  that  I  saw  this  gardine  wasted. — SPENSER. 

I  MIND  me  in  the  days  departed, 
How  often,  underneath  the  sun, 
With  childish  bounds  I  used  to  run 

To  a  garden  long  deserted. 

The  beds  and  walks  were  vanish'd  quite ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  had  fallen  the  spade, 
The  greenest  grasses  nature  led, 

To  sanctify  her  right. 

I  called  it  my  wilderness, 
For  no  one  enter'd  there  but  I ; 
The  sheep  look'd  in,  the  grass  t'  espy, 

And  passed  ne'ertheless. 

The  trees  were  interwoven  wild, 
And  spread  their  boughs  enough  about 
To  keep  both  sheep  and  shepherd  out, 

But  not  a  happy  child. 

Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me  ! 
I  crept  beneath  the  boughs,  and  found 
A  circle  smooth  of  mossy  ground 

Beneath  a  poplar-tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in, 
Bedropt  with  roses  waxen-white, 
Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light, 

And  careless  to  be  seen. 

Long  years  ago  it  might  befall, 
When  all  the  garden  flowers  were  trim, 
The  grave  old  gardener  prided  him 

On  these  the  most  of  all ; 

And  lady  stately  overmuch, 
Who  moved  with  a  silken  noise, 
Blush'd  near  them,  dreaming  of  the  voice 

That  liken'd  her  to  such  ! 

And  these,  to  make  a  diadem, 
She  may  have  often  pluck'd  and  twined, — • 
Half-smiling  as  it  came  to  mind, 

That  few  would  look  at  them. 

Oh  !  little  thought  that  lady  proud, 
A  child  would  watch  her  fair  white  rose, 
When  buried  lay  her  whiter  brows, 

And  silk  was  changed  for  shroud  ! — 


432 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


Nor  thought  that  gardener,  full  of  scorns 
For  men  unlearned  and  simple  phrase, 
A  child  would  bring  it  all  its  praise, 

By  creeping  through  the  thorns  ! 

To  me,  upon  my  low  moss  seat, 
Though  never  a  dream  the  roses  sent 
Of  science  or  love's  compliment, 

I  ween  they  smelt  as  sweet. 

Nor  ever  a  grief  was  mine,  to  see 
The  trace  of  human  step  departed : — 
Because  the  garden  was  deserted, 

The  blither  place  for  me  ! 

Friends,  blame  me  not !  a  narrow  ken 
Hath  childhood  'twixt  the  sun  and  sward ! 
We  draw  the  moral  afterward — 

We  feel  the  gladness  then  ! 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  the  rose-tree  wall : 
A  thrush  made  gladness  musical 

Upon  the  other  side. 

Nor  he  nor  I  did  e'er  incline 
To  mar  or  pluck  the  blossoms  white. — 
How  should  I  know  but  that  they  might 

Lead  lives  as  glad  as  mine  1 

To  make  my  hermit-home  complete, 
I  brought  clear  water  from  the  spring, 
Praised  in  its  own  low  murmuring, — 

And  cresses  glossy  wet. 

And  so,  I  thought  my  likeness  grew 
(Without  the  melancholy  tale) 
To  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  Angelina  too ! 

For  oft  I  read,  within  my  nook, 
Such  minstrel  stories,  till  the  breeze 
Made  sounds  poetic  in  the  trees, — 

And  then  I  shut  the  book. 

If  I  shut  this  wherein  I  write, 
I  hear  no  more  the  wind  athwart 
Those  trees ! — nor  feel  that  childish  heart 

Delighting  in  delight ! 

My  childhood  from  my  life  is  parted  ; 
My  footstep  from  the  moss  which  drew 
Its  fairy  circle  round  :  anew 

The  garden  is  deserted  ! 

Another  thrush  may  there  rehearse 
The  madrigals  which  sweetest  are  : — 
No  more  for  me  ! — myself,  afar, 

Do  sing  a  sadder  verse  ! 

Ah  me !  ah  me  ! — when  erst  I  lay 
In  that  child's-nest  so  greenly  wrought, 
I  laucrhed  to  myself  and  thought, 

"  The  time  will  pass  away  !" 

I  laughed  still,  and  did  not  fear 
But  that,  whene'er  was  past  away 
The  childish  time,  some  happier  play 

My  womanhood  would  cheer. 


I  knew  the  time  would  pass  away, — 
And  yet,  beside  the  rose-tree  wall, 
Dear  God ! — how  seldom,  if  at  all, 

I  looked  up  to  pray  ! 

The  time  is  past ! — and  now  that  grows 
The  cypress  high  among  the  trees, 
And  I  behold  white  sepulchres 

As  well  as  the  white  rose — 

When  wiser,  meeker  thoughts  are  given, 
And  I  have  learn'd  to  lift  my  face, 
Remembering  earth's  greenest  place 

The  colour  draws  from  heaven — 

It  something  saith  for  earthly  pain, 
But  more  for  heavenly  promise  free, 
That  I  who  was,  would  shrink  to  be 

That  happy  child  again  ! 


LOVED  ONCE. 


I  CLASS'D  and  counted  once 
Earth's  lamentable  sounds — the  well-a-day, 

The  jarring  yea  and  nay, 
The  fall  of  kisses  upon  senseless  clay, — 

The  sobb'd  farewell,  the  greeting  mournfuler, — 

But  all  those  accents  were 
Less  bitter  with  the  leaven  of  earth's  despair 

Than  I  thought  these — « loved  once" 

And  who  saith  "I  loved  once  ?" — 
Not  angels ;  whose  clear  eyes  love,  love  foresee ; 

Love  through  eternity — 
Who  by  "  to  love,"  do  apprehend  "  to  be." 

Not  God,  called  love,  His  noble  crown-name;  casting 

A  light  too  broad  for  blasting ! 
The  great  God,  changing  not  for  everlasting, 

Saith  never,  "  I  loved  once." 

Nor  ever  "  I  loved  once" 
Wilt  thou  say,  O  meek  Christ,  O  victim-friend ! 

The  nail  and  curse  may  rend, 
But,  having  loved,  Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 

This  is  man's  saying !  Impotent  to  move 

One  spheric  star  above, 
Man  desecrates  the  eternal  God-word  Love, 

With  his  "  no  more"  and  "  once." 

How  say  ye,  «  We  loved  once," 
Blasphemers  1     Is  your  earth  not  cold  enow, 

Mourners,  without  that  snow  1 
Ah,  sweetest  friend — and  would  ye  wrong  me  so  ? 

And  would  ye  say  of  me,  whose  heart  is  known, 
Whose  prayers  have  met  your  own  :       [shone, 

Whose  tears  have  fallen  for  you ;  whose  smile  hath 
Your  words — «  We  loved  her  once  ]" 

Could  ye  "  we  loved  her  once" 
Say  cold  of  me,  when  dwelling  out  of  sight? 

When  happier  friends  aright 
(Not  truer)  stand  between  me  and  your  light1? 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


433 


When,  like  a  flower  kept  too  long  in  the  shade, 

Ye  find  my  colours  fade, 
And  all  that  is  not  love  in  me  decay'd, 

Say  ye,  «  We  loved  her  once  1" 

Will  ye,  "  We  loved  her  once" 
Say  after,  when  the  bearers  leave  the  door  7 

When  having  murmur'd  o'er 
My  last  «  Oh  say  it  not,"  I  speak  no  more  1 

Not  so — not  then — least  THEN!  when  life  is  shriven, 

And  death's  full  joy  is  given, — 
Of  those  who  sit  and  love  you  up  in  heaven, 

Say  not,  "  We  loved  them  once." 

Say  never,  "  We  loved  once  :" 
God  is  too  near  above — the  grave  below  : 

And  all  our  moments  go 
Too  quickly  past  our  souls  for  saying  so. 

The  mysteries  of  life  and  death  avenge 

Affections  light  of  range — 
There  comes  no  change  to  justify  that  change, 

Whatever  comes — loved  once  ! 

And  yet  that  word  of  "  once" 
Is  humanly  acceptive — kings  have  said, 

Shaking  a  discrown'd  head, 
«  We  ruled  once,"  idiot  tongues,  "  we  once  bested." 

Cripples  once  danced  i'  the  vines,  and  warriors 
proved 

To  nurse's  rocking  moved  :  [loved 

But  Love  strikes  one  hour — LOVE  !  Those  never 

Who  dream  that  they  loved  once. 


THE  SLEEP. 
"He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep."— Psalm  cxxvii.  2. 

OF  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 

Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep — 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  1" 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  1 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved — 

The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep — 
The  senate's  shout  to  patriot  vows — 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ? — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  1 
A  little  faith,  all  undisproved — 

A  little  dust,  to  overweep — 
And  bitter  memories,  to  make 
The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  ! 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved !"  we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber,  when 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 
55 


O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 
O  delved  gold,  the  waiters  heap ! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  makes  a  silence  through  you  all, 

And  "  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

His  dew  drops  mutely  on  the  hill; 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 

Though  on  its  slope  men  toil  and  reap ! 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

«  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

Ha !  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man, 

In  such  a  rest  his  heart  to  keep ; 
But  angels  say — and  through  the  word 

1  ween  their  blessed  smile  is  heard — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  !" 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go, 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  juggler's  leap, — 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  H's  love  repose, 

Who  "  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  !" 

And,  friends  ! — dear  friends ! — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep — 
Let  me,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall — 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  !" 


EARTH. 

How  beautiful  is  earth  !  my  starry  thoughts 
Look  down  on  it  from  their  unearthly  sphere, 
And  sing  symphonious — Beautiful  is  earth  ! 
The  lights  and  shadows  of  her  myriad  hills ; 
The  branching  greenness  of  her  myriad  woods ; 
Her  sky-affecting  rocks ;  her  zoning  sea  ; 
Her  rushing,  gleaming  cataracts;  her  streams 
That  race  below,  the  winged  clouds  on  high ; 
Her  pleasantness  of  vale  and  meadow  ; — 

Hush! 

Meseemeth  through  the  leafy  trees  to  ring 
A  chime  of  bells  to  falling  waters  tuned ; 
Whereat  comes  heathen  Zephyrus,  out  of  breath 
With  running  up  the  hills,  and  shakes  his  hair 
From  off  his  gleesome  forehead,  bold  and  glad 
With  keeping  blythe  Dan  Phosbus  company ; — 
And  throws  him  on  the  grass,  though  half-afraid, 
First  glancing  round,  lest  tempests  should  be  nigh ; 
And  lays  close  to  the  ground  his  ruddy  lips, 
And  shapes  their  beauty  into  sound,  and  calls 
On  all  the  petall'd  flowers  that  sit  beneath 
In  hiding-places  from  the  rain  and  snow, 
To  loosen  the  hard  soil,  and  leave  their  cold, 
Sad  idlesse,  and  betake  them  up  to  him. 
They  straightway  hear  his  voice — 

A  thought  did  come, 

And  press  from  out  my  soul  the  heathen  dream. 
Mine  eyes  were  purged.     Straightway  did  I  bind 


434 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


Round  me  the  garment  of  my  strength,  and  heard 
Nature's  death-shrieking — the  hereafter  cry, 
When  he  o'  the  lion  voice,  the  rainbow-crown'd, 
Shall  stand  upon  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
And  swear  by  earth,  by  heaven's  throne,  and  Him 
Who  sittcth  on  the  throne,  there  shall  be  time 
No  more,  no  more  !  Then,  veil'd  Eternity 
Shall  straight  unveil  her  awful  countenance 
Unto  the  reeling  worlds,  and  take  the  place 
Of  seasons,  years,  and  ages.     Aye  and  aye 
Shall  be  the  time  of  day.     The  wrinkled  heaven 
Shall  yield  her  silent  sun,  made  blind  and  white 
With  an  exterminating  light :  the  wind, 
Unchained  from  the  poles,  nor  having  charge 
Of  cloud  or  ocean,  with  a  sobbing  wail 
Shall  rush  among  the  stars,  and  swoon  to  death. 
Yea,  the  shrunk  earth,  appearing  livid  pale 
Beneath  the  red-tongued  flame,  shall  shudder  by 
From  out  her  ancient  place,  and  leave — a  void. 
Yet  haply  by  that  void  the  saints  redeem'd 
May  sometimes  stray  ;  when  memory  of  sin 
Ghost-like  shall  rise  upon  their  holy  souls ; 
And  on  their  lips  shall  lie  the  name  of  earth 
In  paleness  and  in  silentness  ;  until, 
Each  looking  on  his  brother,  face  to  face, 
And  bursting  into  sudden  happy  tears, 
(The  only  tears  undried)  shall  murmur — "  Christ!" 


THE  STUDENT. 

"Mr  midnight  lamp  is  weary  as  my  soul, — 
And,  being  unimmortal,  has  gone  out ! 
And  now,  alone,  yon  moony  lamp  of  heaven — 
Which  God  lit,  and  not  man — illuminates 
These  volumes,  others  wrote  in  weariness, — 
As  I  have  read  them  ;  and  this  cheek  and  brow, 
Whose  paleness,  burned  in  with  heats  of  thought, 
Would  make  an  angel  smile,  to  see  how  ill 
Clay,  thrust  from  Paradise,  consorts  with  mind — 
If  angels  could,  like  men,  smile  bitterly  ! 

"  Yet  must  my  brow  be  paler  !     I  have  vow'd 
To  clip  it  with  the  crown  which  cannot  fade, 
When  it  is  faded.     Not  in  vain  ye  cry, 
Oh !  glorious  voices,  that  survive  the  tongues 
From  whence  was  drawn  your  separate  sovereignty, 
For  I  would  reign  beside  you  !    I  would  melt 
The  golden  treasures  of  my  health  and  life 
Into  that  name !     My  lips  are  vow'd  apart 
From  cheerful  words — mine  ears  from   pleasant 

sounds — 

Mine  eyes  from  sights  God  made  so  beautiful — 
My  feet  from  wanderings  under  shady  trees — 
My  hands  from  clasping  of  dear-loving  friends — 
My  very  heart  from  feelings  which  move  soft ! 
Vow'd  am  I  from  the  day's  delightsomeness, 
And  dreams  of  night ! — and  when  the  house  is  dumb 
In  sleep — which  is  the  pause  'twixt  life  and  life — 
I  live  and  waken  thus ;  and  pluck  away 
Slumber's  sleek  poppies  from  my  pained  lids — 
Goading  my  mind,  with  thongs  wrought  by  herself, 
To  toil  and  struggle  along  this  mountain-path — 
Which  hath  no  mountain-airs — until  she  sweat, 
Like  Adam's  brow, — and  gasp,  and  rend  away, 
In  agony,  her  garment  of  the  flesh  !" 


And  so,  his  midnight  lamp  was  lit  anew, — 
And  burn'd  till  morning.     But  his  lamp  of  life 
Till  morning  burn'd  not !    He  was  found  embraced, 
Close,  cold  and  stiff,  by  death's  compelling  sleep  ; 
His  breast  and  brow  supported  on  a  page 
Character' d  over  with  a  praise  of  fame, — 
Of  its  divineness  and  beatitude — 
Words  which  had  often  caused  that  heart  to  throb, 
That  cheek  to  burn  ;  though  silent  lay  they,  now, — 
Without  a  single  beating  in  the  pulse, 
And  all  the  fever  gone  ! 

I  saw  a  bay 

Spring,  verdant,  from  a  newly-fashion'd  grave : 
The  grass  upon  the  grave  was  verdanter, — 
That  being  water'd  by  the  eyes  of  One 
Who  bore  not  to  look  up  toward  the  tree! 
Others  look'd  on  it — some,  with  passing  glance, 
Because  the  light  wind  stirred  in  its  leaves ; 
And  some,  with  sudden  lighting  of  the  soul, 
In  admiration's  ecstasy  ! — ay  !  some 
Did  wag  their  heads  like  oracles,  and  say, 
"  'Tis  very  well !"     But  none  remembered 
The  heart  which  housed  the  root — except  that  One 
Whose  sight  was  lost  in  weeping  ! 

Is  it  thus, 

Ambition! — idol  of  the  intellect? 
Shall  we  drink  aconite,  alone  to  use 
Thy  golden  bowl — and  sleep  ourselves  to  death, 
To  dream  thy  visions  about  life  1     Oh,  power ! 
That  art  a  very  feebleness  ! — before 
Thy  clayey  feet  we  bend  our  knees  of  clay, — 
And  round  thy  senseless  brow  bind  diadems, 
With  paralytic  hands, — and  shout  "  A  god  !" 
With  voices  mortal-hoarse  !     Who  can  discern 
Th'  infirmities  they  share  in  1     Being  blind, 
We  cannot  see  thy  blindness  : — being  weak, 
We  cannot  feel  thy  weakness : — being  low, 
We  cannot  mete  thy  baseness : — being  unwise, 
We  cannot  understand  thine  idiocy  ! 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  HUMAN. 

"  THERE  is  no  God,"  the  foolish  saith — 

But  none,  "  there  is  no  sorrow  :" 
And  nature  oft  the  cry  of  faith 

In  bitter  need  will  borrow. 
Eyes,  which  the  preacher  could  not  school, 

By  wayside  graves  are  raised, 
And  lips  say,  "  God  be  pitiful," 

That  ne'er  said,  "  God  be  praised." 
Be  pitiful— 
Be  pitiful,  0  God ! 

The  tempest  shooteth  from  the  steep 

The  shadow  of  its  coming  : 
The  beasts  and  birds  anear  us  creep, 

As  power  were  in  the  human  ! 
Power  ! — while  above,  the  mountain's  shake, 

We  spirits  tremble  under  ! 
The  hills  have  echoes — but  we  make 

No  answer  to  the  thunder. 

Be  pitiful — 

Be  pitiful,  O  God. 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


435 


Perhaps  the  war  is  in  the  plains ; 

Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her  : 
We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains, 

And  call  the  harvest  honour ! 
Draw  out  confronted  line  to  line, 

The  natures  all  inherit ; 
Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign, 

Clay,  clay  ;  and  spirit,  spirit. 

Be  pitiful— 

Be  pitiful,  O  God. 

Perhaps  the  plague  is  in  the  town — 

And  never  a  bell  is  tolling  ; 
And  corpses,  jostled  'neath  the  moon, 

Nod  to  the  death-cart's  rolling. 
The  strong  man  calleth  for  the  cup, 

The  young  maid  brings  it  weeping : 
The  wife  from  her  sick  babe  looks  up, 

And  shrieks  away  its  sleeping. 

Be  pitiful— 

Be  pitiful,  O  God. 

We  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 

Of  one  loved  and  departed. 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lids  that  said, 

Last  night,  "  Be  stronger-hearted  !" 
Clasp,  clasp  the  friendly  fingers  close — 

We  stand  here  all  as  lonely, 
To  see  a  light  on  dearest  brows 

Which  is  the  daylight  only. 

Be  pitiful — 

Be  pitiful,  O  God. 

The  happy  children  come  to  us 

And  look  up  in  our  faces  ; 
They  ask  us,  was  it  thus  and  thus, 

When  we  were  in  their  places  ] 
We  cannot  speak :  we  see  anew 

The  hills  we  used  to  live  in — 
And  feel  our  mother's  smile  press  through 

The  kisses  she  is  giving. 

Be  pitiful — 

Be  pitiful,  0  God. 

We  pray  together  at  the  kirk 

For  mercy,  mercy  solely — 
Hands  weary  with  the  evil  work, 

We  lift  them  to  the  Holy. 
The  corpse  is  calm  below  our  knee, 

Its  spirit  bright  before  thee  : 
Between  them,  worse  than  either,  we — 

Without  the  rest  or  glory ; 

Be  pitiful — 

Be  pitiful,  O  God. 

We  leave  the  communing  of  men 

The  murmur  of  the  passions, 
And  live  alone,  to  live  again 

To  endless  generations. 
Are  we  so  brave  ]    The  sea  and  sky 

In  silence  lift  their  mirrors, 
And,  glass'd  therein,  our  spirits  high 

Recoil  from  their  own  terrors. 

Be  pitiful— 

Be  pitiful,  0  God. 

We  sit  on  hills  our  childhood  wist, 
Woods,  hamlets,  streams  beholding, 


The  sun  strikes  through  the  farthest  mist, 

The  city's  spires  to  golden. 
The  city's  golden  spire  it  was, 

When  hope  and  health  were  strongest, 
And  now  it  is  the  kirkyard  grass 
We  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful— 

Be  pitiful,  O  God. 

But  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull : 

Men  whisper,  «  He  is  dying !" 
We  cry  no  more,  "  Be  pitiful" — 

We  have  no  strength  for  crying. 
No  strength,  no  need !    Oh,  eyes  of  mine, 

Look  up,  and  triumph  rather. 
So,  in  the  depth  of  God's  divine, 

The  Son  adjures  the  Father, 

BE  PITIFUL — 

BE  PITIFUL,  O  GOD. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  WATCHER. 

SLEEP  on,  baby  on  the  floor, 

Tired  of  all  the  playing — 
Sleep  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 

That  you  dropp'd  away  in  ; 
On  your  curls'  fair  roundness  stand 

Golden  lights  serenely — 
One  cheek,  push'd  out  by  the  hand, 

Folds  the  dimple  inly. 
Little  head  and  little  foot 

Heavy  laid  for  pleasure, 
Underneath  the  lids  half-shut 

Slants  the  shining  azure — 
Open-soul'd  in  noonday  sun, 

So,  you  he  and  slumber; 
Nothing  evil  having  done, 

Nothing  can  encumber. 

I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  well, 

Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you  ? 
Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 

All  that  may  undo  you  ? 
Nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  fate  appeareth  ! 
7  smile,  too  !  for  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss  ! 

I  shall  sleep,  though  losing ! 
As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross, 

Sweet  is  the  reposing. 

And  God  knows,  who  sees  us  twain, 

Child  at  childish  leisure, 
I  am  all  as  tired  of  pain 

As  you  are  of  pleasure. 
Very  soon,  too,  by  His  grace 

Gently  wrapt  around  me, 
I  shall  show  as  calm  a  face, 

I  shall  sleep  as  soundly ! 
Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings  sleeping, 
While  my  hand  must  drop  the  few 

Given  to  my  keeping — 


436 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


Differing  in  this,  that  I 

Sleeping,  must  be  colder, 
And  in  waking  presently, 

Brighter  to  beholder — 
Differing  in  this  beside — 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me  T 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Your  great  eyes  toward  me?) 
That  while  I  you  draw  withal 

From  this  slumber  solely, 
Me,  from  mine,  an  angel  shall, 

Trumpet-tongued  and  holy  ! 


CATERINA  TO  CAMOENS.* 

OJT  the  door  you  will  not  enter, 

I  have  gazed  too  long — Adieu ! 
Hope  hath  lost  her  peradventure — 
Death  is  near  me — and  not  you  ! 
Come  and  cover, 
Poet-lover, 

These  faint  eyelids — so,  to  screen 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen." 

All  is  changing!     Cold  and  gray 

Streams  the  sunshine  through  the  door. 
If  you  stood  there,  would  you  say 
«  Love,  I  love  you,"  as  before  I 
When  death  lies 
On  the  eyes 

Which  you  sang  of  that  yestreen, 
As  the  sweetest  ever  seen  1 

When  I  heard  you  hymn  them  so, 
In  my  courtly  days  and  bowers, 
Othe.rs'  praise — I  let  it  go — 
Only  hearing  that  of  yours  ; 
Only  saying 
In  heart-playing, 

"  Blessedest  mine  eyes  have  been, 
Since  the  sweetest  his  have  seen  !" 

Now  you  wander  far  and  farther, 

Little  guessing  of  my  pain  ! 
Now  you  think  me  smiling  rather, 
And  you  smile  me  back  again, — 
Ay,  and  oft 
Murmur  soft, 
In  your  revery  serene — 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

And  I  think,  were  you  beside  them, 

Near  this  bed  I  die  upon ; 
Though  the  beauty  you  denied  them, 
As  you  stood  there  looking  down, 
You  would  still 
Say  at  will, 

For  the  love's  sake  found  therein, 
«  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 


*  The  I  idy  died  during  the  absence  of  her  poet,  and  ia 
supposed  lo  muse  thus  while  dying;  referring  to  the 
verse  in  which  he  had  recorded  the  sweetness  of  her 
eyes. 


Nay,  if  you  look'd  down  upon  them, 

And  if  they  look'd  up  to  you, 
All  the  light  which  had  forgone  them 
They  would  gather  back  anew  ! 
They  would  be, 
Verily, 

Love-transform'd  to  beauty's  sheen, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

Still  no  step !     The  fountain's  warble 

In  the  courtyard  sounds  alone : 
As  the  water  to  the  marble, 
So  my  heart  falls  with  a  moan 
From  love-sighing 
To  this  dying ! 

Love  resigns  to  death,  I  ween, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

Will  you  come,  when  I'm  departed 
Where  all  sweetnesses  are  hid — 
Where  your  voice,  my  tender-hearted, 
Will  not  lift  up  either  lid — 
Cry,  O  lover ! 
Love  is  over : 

Cry  beneath  the  cypress  green, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

When  the  «  Angelus"  is  ringing, 

Past  the  convent  will  you  go, 
And  remember  the  soft  singing 
Which  we  heard  there  long  ago  T 
I  walk'd  onward, 
Looking  downward, 
Till  you  cried,  "  What  do  you  mean, 
Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ?" 

At  the  tryst-place  by  the  river, 

Will  you  sit  upon  our  stone, 
And  think  how  we  said  «  for  ever," 
And  weep  sore  to  be  alone  ? 
"  Water-lily, 
Sweet  arid  stilly" — 
Said  I — "  Ay,"  you  murmur'd  then/ 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

Underneath  the  palace  lattice, 

Will  you  ride  as  you  have  done  ! 
If  a  face  flash  out  there,  that  is 
Not  the  true,  familiar  one ; 
For  oh,  truly, 
(Think  it  duly  !) 

There  have  watch'd  you,  morn  and  e'en, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen." 

When  the  palace  ladies,  sitting 

Round  your  gittern,  shall  have  said — 
"  Sing  the  lovely  stanzas  written 
For  that  lady  who  is  dead" — 
Will  you,  trying, 
Break  off,  sighing, 
Or  sing — dropping  tears  between — 
<i  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ?" 

«  Sweetest  eyes !"  How  sweet,  in  flowings 

Of  all  tune,  the  burden  is  ! 
Though  you  sang  a  hundred  poems, 

Still  the  best  one  would  be  this. 


ELIZABETH    B.    BARRETT. 


437 


Still  I  hear  it 
'Twixt  my  spirit 
And  the  earth-noise  intervene — 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

But  the  priest  waits  for  the  praying, 
And  the  choir  are  on  their  knees ; 
And  the  soul  should  pass  away  in 
Strains  more  solemn-pure  than  these. 
"  Miserere" 
For  the  weary  ! 
Now  no  longer  for  Catrine, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

Keep  this  riband,*  take  and  keep  it, 

I  have  loosed  it  from  my  hair, 
Feeling,  while  you  over  weep  it, 
Not  alone  in  your  despair — 

Since  with  saintly 
Watch,  unfaintly 
Out  of  heaven,  shall  o'er  you  lean 
"Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

But — but,  now — yet  unremoved 

Up  to  heaven — they  glisten  fast — 
You  may  cast  away,  beloved, 
In  the  future  all  the  past ! 

That  old  phrase 
May  be  praise 

For  some  fairer  bosom-queen, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

Eyes  of  mine  !  what  are  ye  doing  ? 

Faithless,  faithless — praised  amiss, 
If  one  tear  be  of  your  showing, 
Shed  for  any  hope  of  His  ! 

Death  hath  boldness 
In  its  coldness, 

If  one  false  tear  should  demean 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !" 

I  will  look  out  to  his  future — 

I  will  bless  it  till  it  shine ! 
Should  he  ever  be  a  suitor 
Unto  other  eyes  than  mine, 

Sunshine  gild  them, 
Angels  shield  them, 
Whatsoever  eyes  terrene 
Then  be  sweetest  ever  seen  ! 


DESPAIR. 

I  TELL  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless ; 
That  only  men  incredulous  of  despair, 
Half-taught  in  anguish,  through  the  midnight  air 
Beat  upward  to  God's  throne  in  loud  access 
Of  shrieking  and  reproach.     Full  desertness 
In  hearts,  as  countries,  lieth  silent,  bare 
Under  the  blenching,  vertical  eye-glare 
Of  the  free  charter'd  heavens.     Be  still  !  express 
Grief  for  thy  dead  in  silence  like  to  death ! 
Most  like  a  monumental  statue  set 
In  everlasting  watch  and  moveless  wo, 
Till  itself  crumble  to  the  dust  beneath. 
Touch  it,  spectator!     Are  its  eyelids  wet1? 
If  it  could  weep,  it  could  arise  and  go  ! 

*  She  left  him  the  riband  from  her  hair. 


THE  DEPARTED. 

WHEN  some  beloved  voice,  which  was  to  you 
Both  sound  and  sweetness,  faileth  suddenly, 
And  silence  against  which  you  dare  not  cry 
Aches  round  you  with  an  anguish  dreadly  new — 
What  hope,  what  help  ]      What  music  will  undo 
That  silence  to  your  sense  1     Not  friendship's  sigh, 
Not  reason's  labour' d  proof,  not  melody 
Of  viols,  nor  the  dancers  footing  through  ; 
Not  songs  of  poets,  nor  of  nightingales, 
Whose  hearts  leap  upward  from  the  cypress  trees 
To  Venus'  star !  nor  yet  the  spheric  laws 
Self-chanted — nor  the  angels'  sweet  "  all  hails," 
Met  in  the  smile  of  God  !    Nay,  none  of  these  ! 
Speak,  Christ  at  His  right  hand,  and  fill  this  pause. 

WHAT  ARE  WE  SET  ON  EARTH  FOR? 

WHAT  are  we  set  on  earth  for  ?     Say,  to  toil ! 
Nor  seek  to  leave  thy  tending  of  the  vines 
For  all  the  he-dt  o'  the  sun,  till  it  declines, 
And  death's  mild  curfew  shall  from  work  assoil. 
God  did  anoint  thee  with  his  odorous  oil 
To  wrestle,  not  to  reign — and  he  assigns 
All  thy  tears  over  like  pure  crystallines 
Unto  thy  fellows,  working  the  same  soil, 
To  wear  for  amulets.     So  others  shall 
Take  patience,  labour,  to  their  heart  and  hand, 
From  thy  hand,  and  thy  heart,  and  thy  brave  cheer, 
And  God's  grace  fructify  through  thee  to  all ! 
The  least  flower  with  a  brimming  cup  may  stand 
And  share  its  dew-drop  with  another  near. 

THE  SPINNING-WHEEL. 

THE  woman  singeth  at  her  spinning-wheel 

A  pleasant  song,  ballad  or  barcarolle, 

She  thinketh  of  her  song,  upon  the  whole, 

Far  more  than  of  her  flax  ;  and  yet  the  reel 

Is  full,  and  artfully  her  fingers  feel, 

With  quick  adjustment,  provident  control, 

The  lines,  too  subtly  twisted  to  unroll, 

Out  to  the  perfect  thread.     I  hence  appeal 

To  the  dear  Christian  church — that  we  may  do 

Our  Father's  business  in  these  temples  mirk, 

So  swift  and  steadfast,  so  intent  and  strong — 

While  so,  apart  from  toil,  our  souls  pursue 

Some  high,  calm,  spheric  tune — proving  our  work 

The  better  for  the  sweetness  of  our  song. 

THE  SOUL'S  EXPRESSION. 

WITH  stammering  lips  and  insufficient  sound 

I  strive  and  struggle  to  deliver  right 

That  music  of  my  nature,  day  and  night 

Both  dream,  and  thought,  and  feeling  interwound, 

And  inly  answering  all  the  senses  round 

With  octaves  of  a  mystic  depth  and  height, 

Which  step  out  grandly  to  the  infinite 

From  the  dark  edges  of  the  sensual  ground ! 

This  song  of  soul  I  struggle  to  outbear 

Through  portals  of  the  sense,  sublime  and  whole, 

And  utter  all  myself  into  the  air — 

But  if  I  did  it — as  the  thunder-roll 

Breaks  its  own  cloud — my  flesh  would  perish  there, 

Before  that  dread  apocalypse  of  soul. 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED. 


WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED,  we  believe, 
was  a  native  of  London,  where  members  of 
his  family  now  reside,  occupied  with  the  busi- 
ness of  banking.  The  author  of  "Lillian" 
was  placed,  when  very  young,  at  Eton,  where 
JOHN  MOULTRIE,  HENRY  NELSON  COLERIDGE, 
and  other  clever  men  of  kindred  tastes,  were 
his  associates.  He  was  principal  editor  of 
"  The  Etonian,"  one  of  the  most  spirited  and 
piquant  under-graduate  magazines  ever  sent 
from  a  college.  From  Eton  he  went,  to  Cam- 
bridge, where  he  carried  away  an  unprece- 
dented number  of  prizes,  obtained  by  Greek 
and  Latin  odes  and  epigrams  and  English 
poems.  On  leaving  Trinity  College,  he  set- 
tled in  London,  and  soon  after  became  asso- 
ciated with  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY, 
and  other  young  men  who  have  since  been 
distinguished  at  the  bar  or  in  the  senate,  in 
the  conduct  of  "  Knight's  Quarterly  Maga- 
zine." After  the  discontinuance  of  this  mis- 
cellany, he  occasionally  wrote  for  the  "  New 
Monthly,"  and  for  the  annuals  ;  and  a  friend 
of  his  informs  us  that  a  large  number  of  his 


playful  lyrics,  thrown  off  with  infinite  ease 
and  readiness,  are  yet  unprinted  in  the  pos- 
session of  his  numerous  friends. 

For  a  few  years  before  his  death,  Mr.  PRAED 
was  in  parliament,  where  he  was  considered  a 
rising  member,  though  his  love  of  ease,  and 
social  propensities,  prevented  the  proper  culti- 
vation and  devotion  of  his  powers.  He  died 
on  the  15th  of  July,  1839. 

"  Lillian,"  with  the  exception  of  DRAKE'S 
"  Culprit  Fay,"  is  the  most  purely  imagina- 
tive poem  with  which  we  are  acquainted. 
PRAED  delighted  in  themes  of  this  sort,  and 
"  The  Red  Fisherman,"  the  "  Bridal  of  Bel- 
mont,"  and  some  of  his  other  pieces,  show 
the  exceeding  cleverness  with  which  he  reared 
upon  them  his  fanciful  creations.  "  The  Vi- 
car," "  Josephine,"  and  a  few  more  of  the 
lively  and  graceful  compositions  in  this 
volume  have  been  widely  known  in  this  coun- 
try through  the  periodicals,  and  in  the  present 
season  Mr.  Langley  of  New  York  has  issued 
a  very  neat  edition  of  his  poetical  writings, 
with  a  memoir. 


THE  RED  FISHERMAN. 

THE  abbot  arose,  and  closed  his  book, 

And  donn'd  his  sandal  shoon, 
And  wander'd  forth,  alone,  to  look 

Upon  the  summer  moon  : 
A  starlight  sky  was  o'er  his  head, 

A  quiet  breeze  around  ; 
And  the  flowers  a  thrilling  fragrance  shed, 

And  the  waves  a  soothing  sound : 
It  was  not  an  hour,  nor  a  scene,  for  aught 

But  love  and  calm  delight ; 
Yet  the  holy  man  had  a  cloud  of  thought 

On  his  wrinkled  brow  that  night. 
He  gazed  on  the  river  that  gurgled  by, 

But  he  thought  not  of  the  reeds: 
He  clasp' d  his  gilded  rosary, 

But  he  did  not  tell  the  beads  ; 
If  he  look'd  to  the  heaven,  'twas  not  to  invoke 

The  spirit  that  dwelleth  there ; 
If  he  open'd  his  lips,  the  words  they  spoke 

Had  never  the  tone  of  prayer. 
A  pious  priest  might  the  abbot  seem, 

He  had  sway'd  the  crosier  well ; 
438 


But  what  was  the  theme  of  the  abb  t's  dream, 
The  abbot  were  loth  to  tell. 
Companionless,  for  a  mile  or  more, 
He  traced  the  windings  of  the  shore. 
Oh,  beauteous  is  that  river  still, 
As  it  winds  by  many  a  sloping  hill, 
And  many  a  dim  o'erarching  grove, 
And  many  a  flat  and  sunny  cove, 
And  terraced  lawns,  whose  bright  arcades 
The  honeysuckle  sweetly  shades, 
And  rocks,  whose  very  crags  seem  bowers, 
So  gay  they  are  with  grass  and  flowers ! 

But  the  abbot  was  thinking  of  scenery 
About  as  much,  in  sooth, 

As  a  lover  thinks  of  constancy, 
Or  an  advocate  of  truth. 

He  did  not  mark  how  the  skies  in  wrath 
Grew  dark  above  his  head  ; 

He  did  not  mark  how  the  mossy  path 
Grew  damp  beneath  his  tread  ; 

And  nearer  he  came,  and  still  more  near 
To  a  pool,  in  whose  recess 

The  water  had  slept  for  many  a  year, 
Unchanged  and  motionless ; 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED. 


439 


From  the  river  stream  it  spread  away 

The  space  of  half  a  rood ; 
The  surface  had  the  hue  of  clay 

And  the  scent  of  human  blood  ; 
The  trees  and  the  herbs  that  round  it  grew 

Were  venomous  and  foul; 
And  the  birds  that  through  the  bushes  flew 

Were  the  vulture  and  the  owl ; 
The  water  was  as  dark  and  rank 

As  ever  a  company  pump'd  ;  [bank, 

And  the  perch,  that  was  nettled  and  laid  on  the 

Grew  rotten  while  it  jump'd: 
And  bold  was  he  who  thither  came 

At  midnight,  man  or  boy  ; 
For  the  place  was  cursed  with  an  evil  name, 

And  that  name  was  "  The  Devil's  Decoy  !" 

The  abbot  was  weary  as  abbot  could  be, 
And  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  stump  of  a  tree : 
When  suddenly  rose  a  dismal  tone — 
Was  it  a  song,  or  was  it  a  moan  1 
«  Oh,  ho !  Oh,  ho ! 
Above,  below  ! 

Lightly  and  brightly  they  glide  and  go ; 
The  hungry  and  keen  on  the  top  are  leaping, 
The  lazy  and  fat  in  the  depths  are  sleeping; 
Fishing  is  fine  when  the  pool  is  muddy, 
Broiling  is  rich  when  the  coals  are  ruddy  !" 
In  a  monstrous  fright,  by  the  murky  light, 
He  look'd  to  the  left  and  he  look'd  to  the  right, 
And  what  was  the  vision  close  before  him, 
That  flung  such  a  sudden  stupor  o'er  him! 
'T  was  a  sight  to  make  the  hair  uprise, 

And  the  life-blood  colder  run  : 
The  startled  priest  struck  both  his  thighs, 

And  the  abbey  clock  struck  one  ! 

All  alone,  by  the  side  of  the  pool, 

A  tall  man  sat  on  a  three-legg'd  stool, 

Kicking  his  heels  on  the  dewy  sod, 

And  putting  in  order  his  reel  and  rod ; 

Red  were  the  rags  his  shoulders  wore, 

And  a  high  red  cap  on  his  head  he  bore ; 

His  arms  and  his  legs  were  long  and  bare ; 

And  two  or  three  locks  of  long  red  hair 

Were  tossing  about  his  scraggy  neck, 

Like  a  tatter'd  flag  o'er  a  splitting  wreck. 

It  might  be  time,  or  it  might  be  trouble, 

Had  bent  that  stout  back  nearly  double — 

Sunk  in  their  deep  and  hollow  sockets 

That  blazing  couple  of  Congreve  rockets, 

And  shrunk  and  shrivell'd  that  tawny  skin, 

Till  it  hardly  cover'd  the  bones  within. 

The  line  the  abbot  saw  him  throw 

Had  been  fashion'd  and  form'd  long  ages  ago, 

And  the  hands  that  work'd  his  foreign  vest 

Long  ages  ago  had  gone  to  their  rest : 

You  would  have  sworn,  as  you  look'd  on  them, 

He  had  fish'd  in  the  flood  with  Ham  and  Shem  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

Minnow  or  gentle,  worm  or  fly — 

It  seem'd  not  such  to  the  abbot's  eye : 

Gaily  it  glitter'd  with  jewel  and  gem, 

And  its  shape  was  the  shape  of  a  diadem. 


It  was  fasten'd  a  gleaming  hook  about, 
By  a  chain  within  and  a  chain  without ; 
The  fisherman  gave  it  a  kick  and  a  spin, 
And  the  water  fizz'd  as  it  tumbled  in  ! 

From  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Strange  and  varied  sounds  had  birth — 
Now  the  battle's  bursting  peal, 
Neigh  of  steed,  and  clang  of  steel ; 
Now  an  old  man's  hollow  groan 
Echo'd  from  the  dungeon  stone  ; 
Now  the  weak  and  wailing  cry        ; 
Of  a  stripling's  agony  ! 

Cold  by  this  was  the  midnight  air ; 

But  the  abbot's  blood  ran  colder, 
When  he  saw  a  gasping  knight  lie  there, 
With  a  gash  beneath  his  clotted  hair, 

And  a  hump  upon  his  shoulder. 
And  the  loyal  Churchman  strove  in  vain 

To  mutter  a  Pater  Noster ; 
For  he  who  writhed  in  mortal  pain 
Was  camp'd  that  night  on  Bosworth  plain — 

The  cruel  Duke  of  Glou'ster ! 
There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 
As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 
It  was  a  haunch  of  princely  size, 
Filling  with  fragrance  earth  and  skies. 
The  corpulent  abbot  knew  full  well 
The  swelling  form,  and  the  steaming  smell; 
Never  a  monk  that  wore  a  hood 
Could  better  have  guess'd  the  very  wood 
Where  the  noble  hart  had  stood  at  bay, 
Weary  and  wounded,  at  close  of  day. 

Sounded  then  the  noisy  glee 
Of  a  revelling  company — 
Sprightly  story,  wicked  jest, 
Rated  servant,  greeted  guest, 
Flow  of  wine,  and  flight  of  cork, 
Stroke  of  knife,  and  thrust  of  fork : 
But,  where'er  the  board  was  spread, 
Grace,  I  ween,  was  never  said  ! 

Pulling  and  tugging  the  fisherman  sat; 

And  the  priest  was  ready  to  vomit, 
When  he  hauled  out  a  gentleman,  fine  and  fat, 
With  a  belly  as  big  as  a  brimming  vat, 

And  a  nose  as  red  as  a  comet. 
"  A  capital  stew,"  the  fisherman  said, 

"  With  cinnamon  and  sherry  !" 
And  the  abbot  turned  away  his  head, 
For  his  brother  was  lying  before  him  dead, 

The  mayor  of  St.  Edmond's  Bury  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box  : 

It  was  a  bundle  of  beautiful  things — 

A  peacock's  tail,  and  a  butterfly's  wings, 

A  scarlet  slipper,  an  auburn  curl, 

A  mantle  of  silk,  and  a  bracelet  of  pearl, 

And  a  packet  of  letters,  from  whose  sweet  fold 

Such  a  stream  of  delicate  odours  roll'd, 

That  the  abbot  fell  on  his  face,  and  fainted, 

And  deem'd  his  spirit  was  half-way  sainted. 

Sounds  seem'd  dropping  from  the  skies, 
Stifled  whispers,  smother'd  sighs, 


440 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED. 


And  the  breath  of  vernal  gales, 
And  the  voice  of  nightingales  : 
But  the  nightingales  were  mute, 
Envious,  when  an  unseen  lute 
Shaped  the  music  of  its  chords 
Into  passion's  thrilling  words : 

"  Smile,  lady,  smile  ! — I  will  not  set 
Upon  my  brow  the  coronet, 
Till  thou  wilt  gather  roses  white 
To  wear  around  its  gems  of  light. 
Smile,  lady,  smile ! — I  will  not  see 
Rivers  and  Hastings  bend  the  knee, 
Till  those  bewitching  lips  of  thine 
Will  bid  me  rise  in  bliss  from  mine. 
Smile,  lady,  smile ! — for  who  would  win 
A  loveless  throne  through  guilt  and  sin  ? 
Or  who  would  reign  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
If  woman's  heart  were  rebel  still  1" 

One  jerk,  and  there  a  lady  lay, 

A  lady  wondrous  fair ; 
But  the  rose  of  her  lip  had  faded  away, 
And  her  cheek  was  as  white  and  as  cold  as  clay, 

And  torn  was  her  raven  hair. 
"Ah,  ha!"  said  the  fisher,  in  merry  guise, 

"  Her  gallant  was  hook'd  before ;" 
And  the  abbot  heaved  some  piteous  sighs, 
For  oft  he  had  bless'd  those  deep  blue  eyes, 

The  eyes  of  Mistress  Shore  ! 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  a'nd  creaking  of  locks, 

As  he  took  forth  a  bait  from  his  iron  box. 

Many  the  cunning  sportsman  tried, 

Many  he  flung  with  a  frown  aside  ; 

A  minstrel's  harp,  and  a  miser's  chest, 

A  hermit's  cowl,  and  a  baron's  crest, 

Jewels  of  lustre,  robes  of  price, 

Tomes  of  heresy,  loaded  dice, 

And  golden  cups  of  the  brightest  wine 

That  ever  was  press'd  from  the  Burgundy  vine; 

There  was  a  perfume  of  sulphur  and  nitre, 

As  he  came  at  last  to  a  bishop's  mitre  ! 

From  top  to  toe  the  abbot  shook, 

As  the  fisherman  armed  his  golden  hook ; 

And  awfully  were  his  features  wrought 

By  some  dark  dream  or  waken 'd  thought. 

Look  how  the  fearful  felon  gazes 

On  the  scaffold  his  country's  vengeance  raises, 

When  the  lips  are  crack'd  and  the  jaws  are  dry 

With  the  thirst  which  only  in  death  shall  die : 

Mark  the  mariner's  phrensied  frown 

As  the  swaling  wherry  sot  ties  down, 

When  peril  has  numb  d  the  sense  and  will, 

Though  the  hand  and  the  foot  may  struggle  still : 

Wilder  far  was  the  abbot's  glance, 

Deeper  far  was  the  abbot's  trance : 

Fix'd  as  a  monument,  still  as  air, 

He  bent  no  knee,  and  he  breathed  no  prayer ; 

But  he  sign'd — he  knew  not  why  or  how — 

The  sign  of  the  Cross  on  his  clammy  brow. 

There  was  turning  of  keys,  and  creaking  of  locks, 
As  he  stalk'd  away  with  his  iron  box. 

"Oh,  ho!  Ob,  ho! 

The  cock  doth  crow  ; 
It  is  time  for  the  fisher  to  rise  arid  go. 


Fair  luck  to  the  abbot,  fair  luck  to  the  shrine ! 

He  hath  gnaw'd  in  twain  my  choicest  line ; 

Let  him  swim  to  the  north,  let  him  swim  to  the 

south, 
The  abbot  will  carry  my  hook  in  his  mouth  !" 

The  abbot  had  preach'd  for  many  years, 

With  as  clear  articulation 
As  ever  was  heard  in  the  House  of  Peers 

Against  emancipation ; 
His  words  had  made  battalions  quake, 

Had  roused  the  zeal  of  martyrs ; 
He  kept  the  court  an  hour  awake, 

And  the  king  himself  three  quarters: 
But  ever,  from  that  hour,  'tis  said, 

He  stammer'd  and  he  stutter'd, 
As  if  an  axe  went  through  his  head 

With  every  word  he  utter'd. 
He  stutter'd  o'er  blessing,  he  stutter'd  o'er  ban, 

He  stutter'd  drunk  or  dry  ; 
And  none  but  he  and  the  fisherman 

Could  tell  the  reason  why  ! 


THE  VICAR. 

SOME  years  ago,  ere  Time  and  Taste 

Had  turn'd  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy. 
The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 

St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket, 
Was  always  shown  across  the  green, 

And  guided  to  the  parson's  wicket. 

Bark  flew  the  bolt  of  lisson  lath  ; 

Fair  Margaret  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-clipt  rows  of  box  and  myrtle  : 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

,Upon  the  parlour  steps  collected, 
Wagg'd  all  their  tails  and  seenvd  to  say, 

"Our  master  knows  you  ;  you're  expected  !" 

Up  rose  the  Reverend  Dr.  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  Doctor's  "  winsome  marrow  ;" 
The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down. 

Her  husband  clasp'd  his  ponderous  Barrow; 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed. 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reach'd  his  journey's  end, 

And  warrn'd  himself  in  court  or  college, 
He  had  not  gain'd  an  honest  friend. 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge; — 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, — 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  vicarage,  or  the  vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 
With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses: 

It  slipp'd  from  politics  to  puns  : 
It  pass'd  from  Mahomet  to  Moses : 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED. 


441 


Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 
The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 

And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 
For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine, 

Of  loud  dissent  the  mortal  terror ; 
And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 

He  established  truth,  or  started  error, 
The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep  : 

The  Deist  sigh'd  with  saving  sorrow ; 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep, 

And  dream'd  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermon  never  said  or  show'd 

That  earth  is  foul,  that  heaven  is  gracious, 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius ; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired  [them, 

The  hand  and  head  that  penri'd  and  plann'd 
For  all  who  understood,  admired, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote,  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses  ; 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses ; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost, 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban ; 
And  trifles  for  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothing  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking : 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnish'd  cottage, 
And  praise  the  fanner's  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage  : 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 

And  when  his  hand  unbarr'd  the  shutter, 
The  clammy  lips  of  fever  smiled 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Caesar  or  of  Venus : 
From  him  I  learn'd  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's  cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Quse  Genus; 
I  used  to  singe  his  powder'd  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in ; 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustin. 

Alack  the  change !  in  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled  ; 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled : 
The  church  is  larger  than  before  ; 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry  ; 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more : 

And  pews  are  fitted  up  for  gentry. 
56 


Sit  in  the  vicar's  seat :  you'll  hear 
The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 

Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  voice  is  clear, 
Whose  tone  is  very  Ciceronian. 

Where  is  the  old  man  laid  1 — look  down, 
And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you, 

Hie  JACKT  GULIELMUS  BROWN, 

VlH.  NCLLA  NON   UOJ<4jVDUS  LAUltA. 


SCHOOL  AND  SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

TWELVE  years  ago  I  made  a  mock 

Of  filthy  trades  and  traffics  : 
I  wonder'd  what  they  meant  by  stock ; 

I  wrote  delightful  sapphics  : 
I  knew  the  streets  of  Rome  and  Troy, 

I  supp'd  with  fates  and  furies  ; 
Twelve  years  ago  I  was  a  boy, 

A  happy  boy,  at  Drury's. 

Twelve  years  ago ! — how  many  a  thought 

Of  faded  paints  and  pleasures 
Those  whisper'd  syllables  have  brought 

From  memory's  hoarded  treasures  ! 
The  fields,  the  forms,  the  beasts,  the  books, 

The  glories  and  disgraces, 
The  voices  of  dear  friends,  the  looks 

Of  old  familiar  faces. 

Where  are  my  friends  1 — I  am  alone, 

No  playmate  shares  my  beaker — 
Some  lie  beneath  the  church-yard  stone, 

And  some  before  the  speaker; 
And  some  compose  a  tragedy, 

And  some  compose  a  rondo  ; 
And  some  draw  sword  for  liberty, 

And  some  draw  pleas  for  John  Doe. 

Tom  Mill  was  used  to  blacken  eyes, 

Without  the  fear  of  sessions  , 
Charles  Medler  loath'd  false  quantities, 

As  much  as  false  professions ; 
Now  Mill  keeps  order  in  the  land, 

A  magistrate  pedantic ; 
And  Medler's  feet  repose  unscann'd, 

Beneath  the  wide  Atlantic. 

While  Nick,  whose  oaths  made  such  a  din, 

Does  Dr.  Martext's  duty; 
And  Mullion,  with  that  monstrous  chin, 

Is  married  to  a  beauty  ; 
And  Darrel  studies,  week  by  week, 

His  Mant  and  not  his  Manton  ; 
And  Ball,  who  was  but  poor  at  Greek, 

Is  very  rich  at  Canton. 

And  I  am  eight-and-twenty  now — 

The  world's  cold  chain  has  bound  me ; 
And  darker  shades  are  on  my  brow, 

And  sadder  scenes  around  me  : 
In  parliament  I  fill  my  seat, 

With  many  other  noodles; 
And  lay  my  head  in  Germyn-street, 

And  sip  my  hock  at  Doodle's. 


442 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED. 


But  oft  when  the  cares  of  life 

Have  set  my  temples  aching, 
When  visions  haunt  me  of  a  wife, 

When  duns  await  my  waking, 
When  lady  Jane  is  in  a  pet, 

Or  Hobby  in  a  hurry, 
When  Captain  Hazard  wins  a  bet, 

Or  Beaulieu  spoils  a  curry  : 

For  hours  and  hours,  I  think  and  talk 

Of  each  remember'd  hobby  ; 
I  long  to  lounge  in  Poet's  Walk — 

To  shiver  in  the  lobby  ; 
I  wish  that  I  could  run  away 

From  house,  and  court,  and  levee, 
Where  bearded  men  appear  to-day, 

Just  Eton  boys,  grown  heavy  ; 

That  I  could  bask  in  childhood's  sun, 

And  dance  o'er  childhood's  roses; 
And  find  huge  wealth  in  one  pound  one, 

Vast  wit  and  broken  noses ; 
And  pray  Sir  Giles  at  Datchet  Lane, 

And  call  the  milk-maids  Houris ; 
That  I  could  be  a  boy  again — 

A  happy  boy  at  Drury's ! 


MEMORY. 


on  a  funeral  mound, 

Far,  far  from  all  that  love  thee  ; 
With  a  barren  heath  around, 

And  a  cypress  bower  above  thee  : 
And  think,  while  the  sad  wind,  frets, 

And  the  night  in  cold  gloom  closes, 
Of  spring,  and  spring's  sweet  violets, 

Of  summer,  and  summer's  roses. 

Sleep  where  the  thunders  fly 

Across  the  tossing  billow  ; 
Thy  canopy  the  sky, 

And  the  lonely  deck  thy  pillow  : 
And  dream,  while  the  chill  sea-foam 

In  mockery  dashes  o'er  thee, 
Of  the  cheerful  hearth,  and  the  quiet  home, 

And  the  kiss  of  her  that  bore  thee. 

Watch  in  the  deepest  cell 

Of  the  foeman's  dungeon  tower, 
Till  hope's  most  cherish'd  spell 

Has  lost  its  cheering  power  ; 
And  sing,  v/hile  the  galling  chain 

On  every  stiff  limb  freezes, 
Of  the  huntsman  hurrying  o'er  the  plain, 

Of  the  breath  of  the  mountain  breezes. 

Talk  of  the  minstrel's  lute, 

The  warrior's  high  endeavour, 
When  the  honied  lips  are  mute, 

And  the  strong  arm  crush'd  for  ever  : 
Look  back  to  the  summer  sun, 

From  the  mist  of  dark  December  ; 
Then  say  to  the  broken-hearted  one, 

«'Tis  pleasant  to  remember  !" 


JOSEPHINE. 

WE  did  not  meet  in  courtly  hall, 

Where  birth  and  beauty  throng, 
Where  luxury  holds  festival, 

And  wit  awakes  the  song  : 
We  met  where  darker  spirits  meet, 

In  the  home  of  sin  and  shame, 
Where  Satan  shows  his  cloven  feet, 

And  hides  his  titled  name  ; 
And  she  knew  she  could  not  be,  love, 

What  once  she  might  have  been, 
But  she  was  kind  to  me,  love, 

My  pretty  Josephine. 

We  did  not  part  beneath  the  sky, 

As  warmer  lovers  part, 
Where  night  conceals  the  glistening  eye, 

But  not  the  throbbing  heart; 
WTe  parted  on  the  spot  of  ground 

Where  we  first  had  laugh'd  at  love, 
And  ever  the  jests  were  loud  around, 

And  the  lamps  were  bright  above: 
"  The  heaven  is  very  dark,  love, 

The  blast  is  very  keen, 
But  merrily  rides  my  bark,  love — 

Good  night,  my  Josephine  !" 

She  did  not  speak  of  ring  or  vow, 

But  filled  the  cup  of  wine, 
And  took  the  roses  from  her  brow  . 

To  make  a  wreath  for  mine ; 
And  bade  me,  when  the  gale  should  lift 

My  light  skiff  on  the  wave, 
To  think  as  little  of  the  gift 

As  of  the  hand  that  gave ; 
"Go  gayly  o'er  the  sea,  love, 

And  find  your  own  heart's  queen ; 
And  look  not  back  to  me,  love, 

Your  humble  Josephine !" 

That  garland  breathes  and  blooms  no  more, 

Past  are  those  idle  hours ; 
I  would  not,  could  I  choose,  restore 

The  fondness  or  the  flowers; 
Yet  oft  their  withcr'd  witchery 

Revives  its  wonted  thrill, 
Remember'd — not  with  passion's  sigh, 

But  oh  !  remember'd  still ! 
And  even  from  your  side,  love, 

And  even  from  this  scene, 
One  look  is  o'er  the  tide,  love, 

One  thought  with  Josephine  ! 

Alas  !  your  lips  are  rosier, 

Your  eyes  of  softer  blue, 
And  I  have  never  felt  for  her 

As  I  have  felt  for  you ; 
Our  love  was  like  the  snow^  flakes, 

Which  melt  before  you  pass — 
Or  the  bubble  on  the  wine,  which  breaks 

Before  you  lip  the  glass. 
You  saw  these  eyelids  wet,  love, 

Which  she  has  never  seen; 
But  bid  me  not  forget,  love, 

My  poor  Josephine ! 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED. 


443 


STANZAS. 

I  KXOW  that  it  must  be, 

Yea!  thou  art  changed — all  worshipp'd  as  thou  art — 
Mourn'd  as  thou  shall  be !     Sickness  of  the  heart 

Hath  done  its  work  on  thee  ! 

Thy  dim  eyes  tell  a  tale, 
A  pitious  tale,  of  vigils ;  and  the  trace 
Of  bitter  tears  is  on  thy  beauteous  face, 

Beauteous,  and  yet  so  pale  ! 

Changed  love  !  but  not  alone  ! 
I  am  not  what  they  think  me ;  though  my  cheek 
Wear  but  its  last  year's  furrow,  though  I  speak 

Thus  in  my  natural  tone. 

The  temple  of  my  youth 
Was  strong  in  moral  purpose :  once  I  felt 
The  glory  of  philosophy,  and  knelt 

In  the  pure  shrine  of  truth. 

I  went  into  the  storm, 

And  mock'd  the  billows  of  the  tossing  sea ; 
I  said  to  Fate,  "  What  wilt  thou  do  to  me  1 

I  have  not  harm'd  a  worm  !" 

Vainly  the  heart  is  steel'd 
In  wisdom's  armour  ;  let  her  burn  her  books  ! 
I  look  upon  them  as  the  soldier  looks 

Upon  his  cloven  shield. 

Virtue  and  virtue's  rest, 

How  have  they  perish'd!  Through  my  onward  course 
Repentance  dogs  my  footsteps  !  black  Remorse 

Is  my  familiar  guest ! 

The  glory  and  the  glow 
Of  the  world's  loveliness  have  pass'd  away ; 
And  Fate  hath  little  to  inflict,  to-day, 

And  nothing  to  bestow  ! 

Is  not  the  damning  line 
Of  guilt  and  grief  engraven  on  me  now  ? 
And  the  fierce  passion  which  hath  scathed  thy  brow, 

Hath  it  not  blasted  mine  7 

No  matter  !  I  will  turn 

To  the  straight  path  of  duty  ;  I  have  wrought, 
At  last,  my  wayward  spirit  to  be  taught 

What  it  hath  yet  to  learn. 

Labour  shall  be  my  lot ; 
My  kindred  shall  be  joyful  in  my  praise  ; 
And  Fame  shall  twine  for  me,  in  after  days, 

A  wreath  I  covet  not. 

And  if  I  cannot  make, 

Dearest !  thy  hope  my  hope,  thy  trust  my  trust, 
Yet  will  I  study  to  be  good,  and  just, 

And  blameless,  for  thy  sake. 

Thou  may'st  have  comfort  yet ; 
Whate'er  the  source  from  which  those  waters  glide, 
Thou  hast  found  healing  mercy  in  their  tide ; 

Be  happy  and  forget ! 

Forget  me — and  farewell ! 
But  say  not  that  in  me  new  hopes  and  fears, 
Or  absence,  or  the  lapse  of  gradual  years, 

Will  break  thy  memory's  spell ! 


Indelibly,  within, 

All  I  have  lost  is  written  ;  and  the  theme 
Which  silence  whispers  to  my  thoughts  and  dreams 

Is  sorrow  still — and  sin  ! 


TIME'S  CHANGES. 

I  SAW  her  once — so  freshly  fair 

That,  like  a  blossom  just  unfolding, 
She  open'd  to  life's  cloudless  air ; 

And  Nature  joy'd  to  view  its  moulding : 
Her  smile  it  haunts  my  memory  yet — 

Her  cheeks'  fine  hue  divinely  glowing — 
Her  rosebud  mouth — her  eyes  of  jet — 

Around  on  all  their  light  bestowing : 
Oh  !  who  could  look  on  such  a  form, 

So  nobly  free,  so  softly  tender, 
And  darkly  dream  that  earthly  storm 

Should  dim  such  sweet,  delicious  splendour ! 
For  in  her  mien,  and  in  her  lace, 

And  in  her  young  step's  fairy  lightness, 
Naught  could  the  raptured  gazer  trace 

But  beauty's  glow,  arid  pleasure's  brightness. 

I  saw  her  twice — an  alter'd  charm — 

But  still  of  magic,  richest,  rarest, 
Than  girlhood's  talisman  less  warm, 

Though  yet  of  earthly  sights  the  fairest : 
Upon  her  breast  she  held  a  child, 

The  very  image  of  its  mother; 
Which  ever  to  her  smiling  smiled, 

They  seem'd  to  live  but  in  each  other : — 
But  matron  cares,  or  lurking  wo, 

Her  thoughtless,  sinless  look  had  banish'd, 
And  from  her  cheek  the  roseate  glow 

Of  girlhood's  balmy  morn  had  vanish'd; 
Within  her  eyes,  upon  her  brow, 

Lay  something  softer,  fonder,  deeper, 
As  if  in  dreams  some  vision'd  wo 

Had  broke  the  Elysium  of  the  sleeper. 

I  saw  her  thrice — Fate's  dark  decree 

In  widow's  garments  had  array'd  her, 
Yet  beautiful  she  seem'd  to  be, 

As  even  my  reveries  portray'd  her; 
The  glow,  the  glance  had  pass'd  away, 

The  sunshine,  and  the  sparkling  glitter ; 
Still,  though  I  noted  pale  decay, 

The  retrospect  was  scarcely  bitter ; 
For,  in  their  place  a  calmness  dwelt, 

Serene,  subduing,  soothing,  holy  ; 
In  feeling  which  the  bosom  felt 

That  every  louder  mirth  is  folly — 
A  pensiveness,  which  is  not  grief, 

A  stillness — as  of  sunset  streaming — 
A  fairy  glow  on  flower  and  leaf, 

Till  earth  looks  on  like  a  landscape  dreaming. 

A  last  time — and  unmoved  she  lay, 
Beyond  life's  dim,  uncertain  river, 

A  glorious  mould  of  fading  clay, 

From  whence  the  spark  had  fled  for  ever ! 

I  gazed — my  breast  was  like  to  burst — 
And,  as  I  thought  of  years  departed, 


444 


WINTHROP    MACKWORTH    PRAED. 


The  years  wherein  I  saw  her  first, 

When  she,  a  girl,  was  tender-hearted — 
And,  when  I  mused  on  later  days, 

As  moved  she  in  her  matron  duty, 
A  happy  mother,  in  the  blaze 

Of  ripen'd  hope,  and  sunny  beauty — 
I  felt  the  chill — I  turn'd  aside — 

Bleak  desolation's  cloud  came  o'er  me, 
And  being  seem'd  a  troubled  tide, 

Whose  wrecks  in  darkness  swam  before  me ! 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BALL. 

YKAHS — years  ago — ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  and  witty  ; 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes, 

Or  yawn'd  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty  ; 
Years,  years  ago,  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly  ; 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  a  country  ball ; 

There  when  the  sound  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall, 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle. 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing  : 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star; 

And  when  she  danced— oh,  heaven,  her  dancing! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white  ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender, 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender; 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows ; 
I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle, 

I  wonder'd  where  she'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talk'd  of  politics  or  prayers ; 

Of  Southey's  prose,  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets  ; 
Of  daggers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles,  or  the  last  new  bonnets ; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  matter'd  not  a  tittle, 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmur'd  LiUle. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  for  the  Sunday  Journal. 
My  mother  laugh'd  ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling ; 
My  futher  frown'd  ;  but  how  should  gout 

Find  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ] 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean, 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen, 

Whose  colour  was  extremely  hectic ; 


Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year, 
Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty ; 

Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three  per  cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents, 

Oh  !  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks, 

Such  wealth,  such  honours,  Cupid  chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks, 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  muses. 

She  sketch'd  ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading; 
She  botanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading ; 
She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand — 

She  made  the  Catalina  jealous ; 
She  touch'd  the  organ  ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  and  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

WeU  fill'd  with  all  an  album's  glories; 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimming,  Persian  stories ; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter ; 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Laboo, 

And  recipes  of  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flatter'd,  worshipp'd,  bored, 

Her  steps  were  watch'd,  her  dress  was  noted, 
Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored, 

Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 
She  laugh'd,  and  every  heart  was  glad 

As  if  the  taxes  were  abolish'd  ; 
She  frown'd,  and  every  look  was  sad, 

As  if  the  opera  were  demolish'd. 

She  smiled  on  many  just  for  fun — 

I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it; 
I  was  the  first,  the  only  one 

Her  heart  had  thought  of  for  a  minute ; 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  moulded ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  oh  ! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded  ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver ; 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "  Fly  Not  Yet,"  upon  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted — months  and  years  roll'd  by ; 

We  met  again  four  summers  after ; 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh — 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ; 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell, 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room  belle, 

But  only  Mrs. — Something — Rogers. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON  is  the  son  of  a  clergy- 
man in  Lincolnshire,  and  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Since  leaving 
the  university  he  has  lived  in  retirement.  His 
first  appearance  as  an  author  was  in  1830, 
when  he  published  a  small  volume  of  verses, 
which  was  succeeded  two  years  afterwards  by 
another  entitled  Poems  chiefly  Lyrical.  In 
1843  appeared  his  collected  writings  in  two 
volumes, — the  first  containing  a  selection  from 
his  previous  publications,  and  the  second  his 
-later  compositions. 

Mr.  TENNYSON,  says  LEIGH  HUNT,  in  a 
notice  written  several  years  ago  of  his  earlier 
poems,  "  is  of  the  school  of  KEATS  ;  that  is  to 
say,  it  is  difficult  not  to  see  that  KEATS  has 
been  a  great  deal  in  his  thoughts ;  and  that  he 
delights  in  the  same  brooding  over  his  sen- 
sations, and  the  same  melodious  enjoyment 

of  their  expression Much,  however,  as 

he  reminds  us  of  KEATS,  his  genius  is  his 
own:  he  would  have  written  poetry  had  his 
precursor  written  none;  and  he  has,  also,  a 
vein  of  metaphysical  subtlety,  in  which  the 

other  did  not  indulge He  is  a  great  lover 

of  a  certain  home  kind  of  landscape,  which  he 
delights  to  paint  with  a  minuteness  that  in  the 
Moated  Grange  becomes  affecting,  and  in  the 
Miller's  Daughter  would  remind  us  of  the 
Dutch  school  if  it  were  not  mixed  up  with 
the  same  deep  feeling,  though  varied  with  a 
pleasant  joviality.  He  has  yet  given  no  such 
evidence  of  sustained  and  broad  power  as  that 
of  Hyperion,  nor  even  of  such  gentler  narra- 
tive as  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  and  the  poems 
of  Lamia  and  Isabella,  but  the  materials  of 
the  noblest  poetry  are  abundant  in  him." 

The  general  judgment  was  less  favourable 
than  that  of  Mr.  HUNT.  TENNYSON'S  poems 
were  keenly  reviewed  in  several  of  the  lead- 
ing journals  of  criticism,  and  he  is  said  at  an 
early  day  to  have  withdrawn  from  the  market 
and  burned  all  the  unsold  copies.  Yet  the 
volumes  published  in  1830  and  1832  contained 
Mariana,  Oriana,  Madeline,  The  Death  of  the 
Old  Year,  The  Miller's  Daughter,  OEnone, 
and  other  pieces  quite  equal  to  the  larger  num- 
ber of  his  more  recent  productions. 


Locksley  Hall  is  in  my  opinion  the  best  of 
TENNYSON'S  works — the  poem  in  which  there 
is  the  truest  feeling,  the  most  strength,  direct- 
ness, and  intensity.  He  is  sensible  of  his 
want  of  the  inventive  faculty,  and  rarely 
attempts  the  creation  of  incidents.  Dora  was 
suggested  by  one  of  Miss  MITFORD'S  portraits, 
and  the  Lady  Clare  by  Mrs.  FARRAR'S  Inhe- 
ritance ;  The  Day  Dream,  The  Lady  of  Sha- 
lott,  Godiva,  and  other  narrative  pieces,  are 
versions  of  old  stories;  and  the  poetry  of  The 
Arabian  Nights  was  ready  made  to  his  hand. 
He  excels  most  in  his  female  portraitures; 
but  while  delicate  and  graceful  they  are  in- 
definite, while  airy  and  spiritual  are  intan- 
gible. As  we  read  BYRON  or  BURNS  beauti- 
ful forms  stand  before  us,  we  see  the  action 
of  their  breathing  and  read  the  passionate  lan- 
guage of  their  eyes ;  but  we  have  glimpses 
only  of  the  impalpable  creations  of  TENNYSON, 
as  on  gold-bordered  clouds  they  bend  to  listen 
to  dream-like  melodies  which  go  up  from  fairy 
lakes  and  enchanted  palaces.  There  are  excep- 
tions :  as  the  picture  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty, 
in  the  Day  Dream,  which  is  rarely  excelled  for 
statue-like  definiteness  and  warmth  of  colour- 
ing. Some  of  his  portraits  of  men  also  are  fine. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  discover  any  thing  in  its 
wray  more  graphic  than  this  description  from 
The  Miller's  Daughter:— 

I  see  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size, 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyesl 
The  slow,  wise  smile,  th;it  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  daily  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half  within  and  half  without, 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world. 

There  are  equally  felicitous  stanzas  in 
several  of  his  longer  poems,  which  are  gene- 
rally, more  than  those  quoted  in  this  volume, 
disfigured  by  affectations  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression. Mr.  TENNYSON  has  studied  KEATS, 
SHELLEY,  and  the  Greek  poets,  and,  of  the 
last  especially,  has  made  free  and  unacknow- 
ledged use.  The  peculiarities  of  his  style 
have  attracted  attention,  and  his  writings  have 
enough  intrinsic  merit,  probably,  to  secure  him 
a  permanent  place  in  the  third  or  fourth  rank 
of  contemporary  English  poets. 


•2P 


445 


446 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

COMRADES,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis 

early  morn  : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound 

upon  the  bugle  horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  round  the  gables,  as  of  old,  the 

curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about   the  moorland  flying  over 

Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the 
sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cata- 
racts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I 

went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the 

west. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  through 

the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver 

braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a 

youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result 

of  Time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land 

reposed  ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise 

that  it  closed  : 

When  I  dipp'd  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye 

could  see ; 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be. — 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the 

robin's  breast ; 
In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself 

another  crest ; 

In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  bur- 

nish'd  dove ; 
In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns 

to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should 
be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  ob- 
servance hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak 

the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets 

to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  colour 
and  a  light, 

As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  north- 
ern night. 

And  she  turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden 

storm  of  sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel 

eyes,— 


Saying,  "  I  have  hid   my   feelings,  fearing  they 

should  do  me  wrong;" 
Saying,  «  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ?"  weeping, 

"  I  have  loved  thee  long." 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in 

his  glowing  hands  ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden 

sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all 

the  chords  with  might ; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in 

music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the 
copses  ring, 

And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  ful- 
ness of  the  spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the 

stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of 

the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted  !  O  my  Amy,  mine 

no  more ! 
Oh  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !  Oh  the  barren. 

barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs 
have  sung, 

Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrew- 
ish tongue ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy? — having  known 

me — to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart 

than  mine ! 

Yet  it  shall  be :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day 
by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sym- 
pathise with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is:   thou  art  mated 

with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight 

to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have 

spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than 

his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy:  think  not  they 

are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him — it  is  thy  duty :   kiss  him :   take  his 

hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  over- 
wrought : 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with 
thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to 

understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  though  I  slew 

thee  with  my  hand ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the 
heart's  disgrace, 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


447 


Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last 
embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the 

strength  of  youth  ! 
Cursed  be  the  social   lies  that  warp  us  from  the 

living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest 
nature's  rule ! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  fore- 
head of  the  fool ! 

Well — 'tis  well    that   I    should    bluster! — Hadst 

thou  less  unworthy  proved — 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than 

ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears 

but  bitter  fruit  1 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my  heart 

be  at  the  root. 

Never,  though  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length 
of  years  should  come 

As  the  many-wintcr'd  crow  that  leads  the  clang- 
ing rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  1  in  division  of  the  records  of 

the  mind  ? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I 

knew  her,  kind  1 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd :    sweetly  did  she 

speak  and  move : 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  who  to  look  at  was  to 

love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the 

love  she  bore  ] 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly :   love  is  love  for 

evermore. 

Comfort  1  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this  is  truth 

the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering 

happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy 

heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead,  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain 

is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art 
staring  at  the  wall, 

When  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  sha- 
dows rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to 

his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd    marriage-pillows,  to  the   tears 

that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never,"  whispered 

by  phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing 

of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kind- 
ness on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow :  get  thee  to 
thy  rest  again. 


Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace ;  for  a  tender 

voice  will  cry, 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine :   a  lip  to  drain  thy 

trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  ;  my  latest  rival 

brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the 

mother's  breast. 

Oh,  the  child,  too,  clothes  the  father  with  a  dear- 
ness  not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his:  it  will  be  worthy  of 
the  two. 

Oh,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty 

part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a 

daughter's  heart. 

"  They  were  dangerous  guides,  the  feelings — she 

herself  was  not  exempt — 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd" — Perish  in  thy 

self-contempt ! 

Overlive    it — lower   yet — be    happy  !    wherefore 

should  I  care  1 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by 

despair. 

What  is  that  which  T  should  turn  to,  lighting 

upon  days  like  these  ] 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to 

golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  mar- 
kets overflow. 

I  have  but  an  angry  fancy :  what  is  that  which  I 
should  do '.' 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foe- 
man's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapour,  and  the 
winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that 

honour  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each 

other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  re-live  in  sadness?    I  will  turn  that 

earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous 

mother-age ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before 

the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult 

of  my  life ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  com- 
ing years  would  yield, 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his 
father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and 

nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a 

dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before 
him  then, 


448 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the 
throngs  of  men ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping 

something  new : 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the 

things  that  they  shall  do  : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could 

see, 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder 

that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of 

magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with 

costly  bales: 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there 

rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies   grappling  in  the 

central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south- 
wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  through 
the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the 

battle-flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  parliament  of  man,  the  federation  of  the 

world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a 
fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  uni- 
versal law. 

So  I  triumph'd,  ere  my  passion  sweeping  through 

me  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with 

the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are 

out  of  joint, 
Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping  on 

from  point  to  point : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping 
nigher, 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly- 
dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing 

purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the 

process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his 

youthful  joys, 
Though  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for  ever 

like  a  boy's? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  lin- 
ger on  the  shore, 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more 
and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he 
bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  still- 
ness of  his  rest. 


Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call   me,  sounding  on 

the  bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target 

for  their  scorn : 

Shall   it  not  be   scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a 

moulder'd  string? 
I  am  shamed  through  all  my  nature  to  have  loved 

so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness !  woman's 

pleasure,  woman's  pain — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a 

shallower  brain : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions, 

match'd  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and   as  water 

unto  wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.  Ah, 

for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  orient,  where   my  life 

began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil- 

starr'd  ; 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's 

ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander  far 

away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the 

day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and 

happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster, 

knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European 

flag, 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  droops  the 

trailer  from  the  crag ; 

Droops    the   heavy-blossom'd   bower,    hangs    the 

heavy-fruited  tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres 

of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than 

in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts 

that  shake  mankind. 

Thdre  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have 

scope  and  breathing-space ; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my 

dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and 

they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their 

lances  in  the  sun  ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rain- 
bows of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable 
books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy!  but  I  know  my 
words  are  wild, 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


449 


But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the 
Christian  child. 

/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our 

glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast 

with  lower  pains ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were 

sun  or  clime  1 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of 

time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one 

by  one, 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's 

moon  in  Aijalon ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward,  for- 
ward let  us  range ; 

Let  the  peoples  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing 
grooves  of  change. 

Through  the  shadow  of  the  world  we  sweep  into 

the  younger  day : 
Better  fifty   years  of  Europe   than   a   cycle   of 

Cathay. 

Mother-Age,  (for  mine  I  knew  not,)  help  me  as 
when  life  begun  : 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  light- 
nings, weigh  the  sun — 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not 

set; 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  through  all  my 

fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to 

Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me 

the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapour  from  the  margin,  blackening  over 

heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a 

thunder-bolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or 

fire  or  snow ; 
For  the  mighty  wiud  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and 

I  go. 


GODIVA. 

I  WAITKD  for  the  train  at  Coventry  ; 
I  hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the  bridge, 
To  watch  the  three  tall  spires ;  and  there  I  shaped 
The  city's  ancient  legend  into  this : — 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past;  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the  people  well 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax'd ;  but  she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame, 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  earl  who  ruled 
In  Coventry :  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 
Tlpon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers  brought 
Their  children,  clamouring,  « If  we  pay,  we  starve ;" 
57 


She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him,  whom  he  strode 

About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 

His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his  hair 

A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their  tqars, 

And  pray'd  him,  "  If  they  pay  this  tax,  they  starve." 

Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 

"  You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 

For  such  as  these?" — "But  I  would  die,"  said  she. 

He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul  : 

Then  fillip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear, 

"Oh  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk!" — "Alas!"  she  said, 

"But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do." 

And  from  a  heart,  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand, 

He  answer'd,  "Ride  you  naked  through  the  town, 

And  I  repeal  it;"  and  nodding,  as  in  scorn, 

He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his  dogs ! 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition  ;  but  that  she  would  loose 
The  people,  therefore,  as  they  loved  her  well, 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing,  but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  window  barr'd. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The  grim  earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  summer  moon 
Half-dipt  in  cloud  :  anon  she  shook  her  head, 
And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste ;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on  ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The  gateway ;  there  she  found  her  palfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity : 
The  deep  air  listen'd  round  her  as  she  rode, 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see :  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame :  her  palfrey's  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  through  her  pulses :  the  blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes ;  and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared :  but  she 
Not  less  through  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from  the  field 
Gleam  through  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chastity: 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth, 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 
Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd — but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will, 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his  head, 
And  dropt  before  him.    So  the  Powers,  who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  misused ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd :  and  all  at  once, 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the  shameless 

noon 

Was  clash'd  and  hammer'd  from  a  hundred  towers, 
One  after  one :  but  even  then  she  gain'd 
Her  bower;  whence  re-issuing,  robed  and  crown'd, 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away, 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


450 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF   THE  ARABIAN 
NIGHTS. 

WHEN  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 

The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time  ; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn, 
A  down  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-wall'd  gardens  green  and  old  ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid  : 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  through 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 
Gold  glittering  through  lamplight  dim, 
And  broider'd  sophas  on  each  side : 

In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,  where  clear-stemm'd  platans  guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crept 
A  down  to  where  the  waters  slept. 

A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid  ! 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  through  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter'd,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbowerd  vaults  of  pillar' d  palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which,  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the  dome 

Of  hollow  boughs. — A  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid! 

Still  onward  ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 
Through  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seem'd  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 

A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid  ! 

Above  through  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-colour'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge, 


From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odour  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon-grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung, 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung ; 
Not  he  :  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd  :  the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind: 
A  sudden  splendour  from  behind 
Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-green, 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid  ! 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame  : 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 

Entranced  with  that  place  and  time, 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  through  the  garden  I  was  drawn — 

A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 

And  many  a  shadow-chequer'd  lawn 

Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound  ; 

And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 

The  stately  cfdar,  tamarisks. 

Thick  roseries  of  scented  thorn, 

Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 
In  honour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  valley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marbled  stair 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
And  humour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


451 


The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers,  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous  time, 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 

Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 

Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 

Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 

Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 

Tress'd  with  redolent  ebony, 

In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 

Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  ; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 

Pure  silver,  underpropp'd  a  rich 

Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 

Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 

Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 

With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 

Thereon,  his  deep  eye,  laughter-stirr'd, 

With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him — in  his  golden  prime, 
The  good  Haroun  Alraschid  ! 


MARIANA. 

WITH  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all, 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange, 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch, 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary  ; 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said  "  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 


Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow  : 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her  :  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  « I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 

The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 
All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark, 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  dark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd, 
The  blue  fly  sung  i'  the  pane  ;   the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 

Old  faces  glimmer'd  through  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  call'd  her  from  without. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense  ;  but  most  she  loath'd  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said ; 

She  wept,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

Oh  God,  that  I  were  dead  !" 


452 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

Mr  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  t-umpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favours  fall ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine: 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  through  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noi«e  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark ; 
I  leap  on  board  :  no  helmsman  steers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And,  star-like,  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Through  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and  mail ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 


A  maiden  knight — to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odours  haunt  my  dreams; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armour  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  through  the  mountain- walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 
"  0  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  grail. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 

Mr  heart  is  wasted  with  my  wo, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 

When  the  long  dun  wolds  areribb'd  with  snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 

Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 

While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana : 
She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana  : 

She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  slept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


453 


The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 

The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 
And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  ! 

Oh  !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 

Oh  !  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana  ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  ? 

How  could  I  look  upon  the  day  ? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

Oh  !  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana ; 
Oh  !  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana. 

Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana : 
What  wantest  thou  1  whom  dost  thou  seek, 

Oriana  ] 
I  cry  aloud  :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 

I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

O  cursed  hand !  O  cursed  blow  ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  Rest  low, 

Oriana  ! 

All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  wo, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 

Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 

ONCE  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls ; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 

Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke  ; 
And,  ah  !  with  what  delighted  eyes 

I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began, 
Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn'd, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Could  hope  itself  returned  ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spoke  without  restraint, 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 

Than  papist  unto  saint. 

For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart 

And  told  him  of  my  choice, 
Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart, 

And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Though  what  he  whisper'd  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand  ; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 

Is  many  a  weary  hour ; 
'Twere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 

If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 
Broad  oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs. — 

«  O  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  summers,  year  by  year, 

Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace : 

«  Old  summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat, 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek, 

Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek ; 

"Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter' s-pence, 
And  number'd  bead,  and  shrift, 

Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence, 
And  turn'd  the  cowls  adrift: 

"And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces,  that  would  thrive 

When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five ; 

"  And  all  that  from  the  town  would  stroll, 
Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 

In  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a  stork : 


454 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


«  The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood, 

And  others,  passing  praise, 
Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 

For  puritanic  stays : 

"  And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties,  that  were  born 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn  ; 

"  And  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 
About  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd 

The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day, 
And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 

"  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

"  For  those  and  their's,  by  Nature's  law 

Have  faded  long  ago ; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"  From  when  she  gamboll'd  on  the  greens, 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Could  number  five  from  ten. 

"  I  swear  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  though  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years — 

"  Yet,  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade, 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  ma«'e, 

So  light  upon  the  grass  : 

"  For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit, 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

Oh.  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 

And  overlook  the  chace; 
And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 
That  oft  hast  heard  my  vows, 

Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

"Oh  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holden  at  the  town  ; 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

"  And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his, 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy : 
As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is, 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"  An  hour  had  past — and,  sitting  straight, 
Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise, 

Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"  But,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home, 

And  on  the  roof  she  went, 
And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come 

She  look'd  with  discontent. 


"  She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut  : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

"  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  through  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

"  A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 

And  in  the  chase  grew  wild, 
As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 

About  the  darling  child  : 

"But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and  rose, 

And  turn'd  to  look  at  her. 

"  And  here  she  came,  and  round  me  play'd, 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  «  giant  bole ;' 

"  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 

She  strove  to  span  my  waist ; 
Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 

I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 

That  here  beside  me  stands, 
That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 

She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

"Yet  seem'd  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 

As  woodbine's  fragile  hold, 
Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 

The  berried  briony  fold." 

Oh  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 

And  shadow  Sumner-chace  ! 
Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 

I  carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs] 

"  Oh  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 

These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 
And  found,  and  kiss'd  the  name  she  found, 

And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 

"  A  tear-drop  trembled  from  its  source, 

And  down  my  surface  crept. 
My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 

But  I  believe  she  wept. 

"Then  flush'd  her  cheek  with  rosy  light, 

She  glanced  across  the  plain ; 
But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight: 

She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind 

That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 
Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 

But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd  : 
"  And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discern'd, 
Like  tho*e  blind  motions  of  the  spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  turn'd. 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


455 


"  Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet's  waving  balm — 

The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press 
The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

<*  I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

With  anthers  and  with  dust: 

"  For  ah  !  the  dryad-days  were  brief 

Whereof  the  poets  talk, 
When  that,  which  breathes  within  the  leaf, 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"  But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem, 

Have  suck'd  and  gather'd  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

"  She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss ; 

But,  lightly  issuing  through, 
I  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss 

With  usury  thereto." 

Oh  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea, 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers, 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

Oh  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern, 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well ; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 

"  'Tis  little  more :  the  day  was  warm, 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm, 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

«  Her  eyelids  dropp'd  their  silken  eaves  : 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Through  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs. 

"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life — 

The  music  from  the  town — 
The  whispers  of  the  drum  and  fife, 

And  lull'd  them  in  my  own. 

"  Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip 

To  light  her  shaded  eye  ; 
A  second  flutter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly  ; 

"A  third  would"  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine  ; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck, 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

"Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread, 

And  shadow'd  all  her  rest — 
Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

"But  in  a  pet  she  started  up, 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 


"  I  shook  him  down  because  he  was 

The  finest  on  the  tree. 
He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass — 

Oh  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

"  Oh  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 
Look  further  through  the  chace, 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetise 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset, 
Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint, 
That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

Oh  rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 

That  under  deeply  strikes  ! 
The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 

High  up,  in  silver  spikes ! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 
Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep  ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath, 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 

And  when  my  marriage-morn  may  fall, 

She,  dryad-like,  shall  wear 
Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 

In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honour'd  beech  or  lime, 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth, 

In  which  the  swarthy  ring-dove  sat 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke; 

And  more  than  England  honours  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak. 


456 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  humm'd  a  surly  hymn. 


THE  LADY    OF   SHALOTT. 


ONT  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky  ; 
And  through  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Through  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses  ;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd, 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot  : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  1 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  1 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot  : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  "  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 


THERE  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  through  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 
Winding  down  to  Camelot : 


There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  rnarket-girls, 
Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  through  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot: 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 
"  I  am  half-sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


A  BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley  sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  through  the  leaves 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  redcross  knight  for  ever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  galaxy. 
The  bridle-bells  rang  merrily, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot . 
And  from  this  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  through  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd  ; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flovv'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  through  the  room, 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


457 


She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  looked  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  ; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side  ; 
"  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART    IV. 

Iy  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale-yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse — 
Like  some  bold  segr  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Through  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  of  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
''A  corse  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  1  and  what  is  here  1 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer  ; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot  : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space; 
He  said,  »  She  has  a  lovely  face  ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 
58 


DORA. 

WITH  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.     William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at  them, 
And  often  thought    "I'll  make    them  man    and 

wife." 

Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearn'd  towards  William  ;  but  the  youth,  be- 
cause 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 

When  Allan  call'd  his  son,  and  said,  "  My  son, 
I  married  late;  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to  ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora  :  take  her  for  your  wife  ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  years."     But  William  answer'd  short, 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  by  my  life, 
I  Vill  not  marry*  Dora."     Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said, 
"  You  will  not,  boy  !  you  dare  to  answer  thus  ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to't. 
Consider :  take  a  month  to  think,  and  give 
An  answer  to  my  wish  ;  or  by  the  Lord 
That  made  me,  you  shall  pack,  and  nevermore 
Darken  my  doors  again."     And  William  heard, 
And  answer'd  something  madly  ;  bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  look'd  at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways  were  harsh ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  and  wed 
A  labourer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said,  "  My  girl,  I  love  you  well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son, 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is  law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She  thought, 
"  It  cannot  be ;  my  uncle's  mind  will  change  !" 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy 
To  William  ;  then  distresses  came  on  him  ; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat, 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and  said, 
"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  through  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone, 

2Q 


458 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 

And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  : 

You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 

So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy, 

And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 

Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 

Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child  arid  went  her  way 

Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 

That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 

Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 

And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 

Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child  ; 

And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 

But  her  heart  fail'd  her;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 

And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound  ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work 
And  came  and  said,  "  Where  were  you  yesterday  1 
Whose  child  is  that  1     What  are  you  doing  here '!" 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground 
And  answer'd  softly,  "This  is  William's  child!" 
"  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora?"     Dora  said  again, 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone  !" 
And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 
To  slight  it.     Well— for  I  will  take  the  boy ; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.     The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bow'd  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.     She  bow'd  down  her  head, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.    She  bow'd  down 
And  wept  in  secret;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy  ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you  : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer'd  Mary,  "  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself: 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy,' 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother ;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go, 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back  ; 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 


So  the  women  kiss'd 

Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch;    they  peep'd,  and 

saw 

The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapp'd  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks, 
Like  one  that  loved  him  ;  and  the  lad  stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in  :  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her, 
And  Allan  set  him  down  ;  and  Mary  said  : 

"  0  Father  ! — if  you  let  me  call  you  so — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child  ;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora :  take  her  back  ;  she  loves  you  well. 

0  sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me  ; 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife  :  but,  sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus. 

'  God  bless  him  !'    he  said,  <  and  may  he  never 

know 
The  troubles  I  have   gone  through !'     Then  he 

turn'd 

His  face  and  pass'd — unhappy  that  I  am  ! 
But  now,  sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory  ;  and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.     There  was  silence  in  the  room  ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs  : — 
"  I  have  been  to  blame — to  blame.     I  have  kill'd 

my  son. 

I  have  kill'd  him — but  I  loved  him — my  dear  son. 
May  God  forgive  me  ! — I  have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundredfold  ; 
And    for   three  hours   he  sobb'd    o'er  William's 

child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together ;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbour  villages 
Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  heathy  leas; 
Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 
Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard  wall ; 
Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden  ease  ; 
Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray  church-tower, 
Wash'd  with  still  rains  and  daisy-blossomed ; 
Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and  bred  ; 
So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to  hour. 


GEORGE    BARLEY. 


MR.  BARLEY  is  the  author  of  Sylvia  or  the 
May  Queen,  a  poem  devoted  to  summer  and 
the  fairies;  the  Manuscripts  of  Erdeley ;  Tho- 
mas a  Becket,  a  tragedy  ;  Ethelstan,  a  chroni- 
cle; and  other  pieces,  narrative,  lyrical  and 
dramatic.  He  belongs  to  a  new  class  of 
writers,  of  whom  we  have  elsewhere  noticed 
ROBERT  BROWNING,  and  R.  H.  HORNE.  He 
has  shown  himself  to  be  a  true  poet,  of  an  origi- 
nal vein  of  thought,  and  an  affluent  imagination. 
In  the  preface  to  Ethelstan,  he  says,  "  I  would 
fain  build  a  cairn,  or  rude  national  monument, 
on  some  eminence  of  our  Poetic  Mountain,  to 
a  few  amongst  the  many  heroes  of  our  race, 
sleeping  even  yet  with  no  memorial  there,  or 
one  hidden  beneath  the  moss  of  ages.  '  Eth- 
elstan' is  the  second  stone,  '  Becket'  was  the 
first,  borne  thither  by  me  for  this  homely  pyra- 
mid ;  to  rear  it  may  be  above  my  powers,  but 
were  it  a  mere  mound  of  rubbish,  it  mio-ht  re- 


main untrampled  and  unscorned,  from  the 
sacredness  of  its  purpose."  Aside  from  this 
object,  his  works  would  command  respect; 
but  their  beauty  is  marred  by  an  affected  quaint- 
ness,  by  novel  epithets,  and  occasional  ob- 
scurities. His  ruggedness  of  manner,  inter- 
rupted by  a  frequent  melody  of  expression, 
remind  us  of  the  old  poets,  whom  he  has  care- 
fully studied,  and  well  described  in  one  of  the 
richest  and  most  idiomatic  specimens  of  recent 
prose,  his  Critical  Essay  prefixed  to  Moxon's 
edition  of  BEAUMONT  and  FLETCHER,  in  which 
he  says,  "  You  find  tulips  growing  out  of  sand- 
banks, pluck  Hesperian  fruit  from  crab-trees, 
step  from  velvet  turf  upon  sharp  stubble." 
"  No  prose  or  poetry,"  says  a  judicious  critic 
in  Jlrcturus,  "can  be  farther  from  the  sonorous 
school  of  ADDISON,  and  nowhere  can  we  find 
rythmical  cadences  of  greater  beauty,  than 
in  some  occasional  passages  of  DARLEY." 


A  SCENE  FROM  ETHELSTAN. 


The  king'  in  sackcloth  at  an  oaken  table  in  a  small  Cabi- 
net. Enter  his  sister,  Edgitlia,  abbess  of  Beverley,  whom 
he  embraces. 

Ethelstan.  My  sister !  my  born  friend ! 
Why  at  this  hour,  [forth, 

When  none  save  night's  rough  minions  venture 
Was  thy  pale  health  so  bold  ] 

Edgitha.  Is  there  no  flush 
Bespreads  my  cheek  1  that's  health  !  new  life,  my 

brother ! 

Which  joy  to  see  thee  brings.     But  out,  alas  ! 
What  change  in  thee,  what  mournful  change  ] 

Eth.  Years!  years! 

Edg.  Nay,  thou'rt,  if  not  in  bloomiest  youth's 

spring-tide, 
Yet  in  its  autumn. 

Eth.  Autumn  is  ever  sere  ! 
Youth  saddens  near  its  ending,  like  old  age ; 
Or  worse,  for  this  hath  better  life  at  hand. 

Edg.  No  !  no  !  that  is  not  it,  that  is  not  it ! 

Eth.  And  then  bethink  thee,  Sihtric's  widow- 
queen, 

Kings  wear  not,  like  the  peacocks,  fcather'd  crowns; 
Our  goldenest  have  some  iron  in  them  too ! 

Edg.  Ah  !  wouldst  thou  take  meek  sample  from 

so  many 

Of  our  wise  Saxon  kings ;  who  gave  up  power 
Without  a  sigh  to  those  who  still  sigh'd  for  it ; 


And  changed  their  glitteringrobes  with  russet  weeds, 

And  turn'd  their  sceptres  into  crucifixes, 

And  bared  their  heads  of  all  but  tonsured  crowns, 

And  lived  out  hermit  lives  in  mossy  cells, 

Or  died  at  Rome  on  saintly  pilgrimage : 

Were  they  not  wise  1 

Eth.  Wise  for  themselves  they  were ! 

Edg.  Then  wherefore  not  thou  for  thyself  as  well? 
Wherefore,  in  thy  loved  town  of  Beverley, 
Under  thy  patron  saint,  canonized  John, 
As  servant  dedicate  through  him  to  heaven. 
Seek  not  thy  temporal  rest  and  peace  eterne  1 
Wherefore  withdraw  not  from  the  thorny  ways 
And  unreclaimable  wilderness  of  this  world, 
To  the  smooth-marbled  aisle  and  cloister  trim 
Beside  us ;  to  these  gardens  paced  by  forms 
Bland-whispering  as  their  trees,  and  moving  round 
Each  shrub  they  tend,  softly  as  its  own  shadow  1 
Wherefore  retire  thee  not,  wouldst  thou  enjoy 
Calm  raptures  of  ecstatic  contemplation, 
To  yon  elm-pillar'd  avenue,  sky  roof'd, 
That  leads  from  Minster  Church  to  Monastery, 
Both  by  thyself  embeautified,  as  if 
But  for  thyself?     Nothing  disturbeth  there 
Save  the  grand  hum  of  the  organ  heard  within, 
Or  murmuring  chorus  that  with  faint  low  chime 
Tremble  to  lift  their  voices  up  o'erhigh 
Even  in  God's  praises! — Here  find  happiness, 
Here  make  thy  quietary  !  as  thy  sister,  [she, 

Once  queen,  hath  done.     Wherefore  not,  thou  and 

459 


4(iO 


GEORGE    DARLEY. 


Abbot  and  abbess,  side  by  side,  return 

To  old  companionship  of  innocence, 

Our  hearts  re-purified  at  the  altar's  flame : 

And  thus  let  second  childhood  lead  us,  lovingly 

As  did  the  first,  adown  life's  gentle  slope, 

To  our  unrocking  cradle — one  same  grave  1 

Eth,  I  could,  even  now,  sleep  to  the  lullaby 
Sung  by  Death's  gossip,  that  assiduous  crone, 
Who  hushes  all  our  race  ! — if  one  hope  fail, 
One  single,  life-endearing  hope — 

Erfg.  Dear  brother,  [brow, 

Take  hope  from  my  content ! — though  pale  this 
'Tis  cairn  as  if  she  smiled  on  it,  yon  Prioress 
Of  heaven's  pure  nunnery,  whose  placid  cheer 
O'erlooks  the  world  beneath  her ;  this  wren's  voice, 
Though  weak,  preserveth  lightsome  tone  and  tenor, 
Ne'er  sick  with  joy  like  the  still-hiccupping  swal- 
low's, 

Ne'er  like  the  nightingale's  with  grief.    Believe  me 
Seclusion  is  the  blessedest  estate 
Life  owns ;  wouldst  be  amongst  the  bless'd  on  earth, 
Hie  thither  ! 

Eth.  Ay — and  what  are  my  poor  Saxons 
To  do  without  their  king  ? — 

Edg.  Have  they  not  thanes 
And  chiefs  1 — 

Eth.   Without  their  father'!    their  defender 7 
Now  specially,  when  rumours  of  the  Dane 
Borne  hither  by  each  chill  Norwegian  wind, 
Like  evening  thunder  creep  along  the  ocean 
With  many  a  mutter'd  threat  of  morrow  dire  1 
No  !  no  !  I  must  not  now  desert  my  Saxons, 
Who  ne'er  deserted  me! 

Edg.  Is  there  none  else 
To  king  it  ] 

Eth.  None  save  the  Etheling  should ;  he  cannot: 
Childe  Edmund  is  o'er-green  in  wit;  though  pre- 
mature 

In  that  too  for  his  years,  and  grown  by  exercise 
Of  arms,  and  practice  of  all  manlike  feats, — 
Which  his  bent  towards  them  makes  continual, 
As  young  hawks  love  to  use  their  beaks  and  wings 
In  coursing  sparrows  ere  let  loose  at  herons, — 
Grown  his  full  pitch  of  stature.     Ah!  dear  sister, 
Thy  choice  and  lot  with  thy  life's  duties  chime, 
All  cast  for  privacy.     So  best !  our  world 
Hath  need  of  such  as  thee  and  thy  fair  nuns, 
And  these  good  fathers  of  the  monastery, 
To  teach  youth,  tend  the  poor,  the  sick,  the  sad, 
Relume  the  extinguished  lights  of  ancient  lore, 
Making  each  little  cell  a  glorious  lantern 
To  beam  forth  truth  o'er  our  benighted  age, 
With  other  functions  high,  howe'er  so  humble, 
Which  I  disparage  not!     But,  dearest  sister, 
Even  the  care  of  our  own  soul  becomes 
A  sin — base  selfishness — when  we  neglect 
All  care  for  others;  and  self-love  too  oft 
Is  the  dark  shape  in  which  the  devil  haunts 
Nunneries,  monkeries,  and  most  privacies, 
Where  your  devout  recluse,  devoted  less 
To  God  than  self,  works  for  his  single  weal ; 
When  like  that  God  he  should,  true  catholic, 

Advance  the  universal  where  he  may 

You  see  this  penitential  garb, 
Yet  call  me  best  of  men  1 


Edg.  It  has  been  worn 
Long,  long  enow  !  'Tis  time  it  were  put  off. 

Eth.  How  soon  will  he  put  off  his  wretched 
O  Edgitha  !  [shroud  1 

Edg.  Pour  all  into  my  breast ! 
Thine  is  o'erflovving! 

Eth.  No  !  Unbosom'd  pain 

Is  half  dismiss'd.     I'll  keep  my  punisher  with  me. 
Press  me  not !  there  is  a  way  to  crush  the  heart 
And  still  its  aching  as  you  bind  the  head 
When  it  throbs  feverish. 

Edg.  Have  care  of  that ! 
There  is  a  way  to  secret  suicide, 
By  crushing  the  swoln  heart  until  you  kill. 
Beware  !  self-death  is  no  less  sinful,  given 
By  sorrow's  point  conceal'd  than  by  the  sword. 

Eth.  Nay,  I  am  jocund  ;  let's  to  supper !  There ! 
A  king  shall  be  his  own  house-knight,  and  serve. 
See  what  a  feast !  we  Saxons  love  good  cheer ! 
[He  takes  from  a  cupboard  pulse,  bread,  and  water.'] 

Edg.  Ah  !  when  he  will  but  smile,  how  he  can 

smile ! 

'Tis  feigning  all !  this  death  sits  on  his  bosom 
Heavily  as  Night-Mara's  horned  steed  : 
His  cares  for  the  whole  realm  oppress  him  too : 
And  our  book-learned  Prior  oft  draws  up 
From  some  deep  fountain  a  clear  drop  of  truth, 
Great  natures  are  much  given  to  melancholy. 


A  SONG  FROM  ETHELSTAN. 

O'ER  the  wild  gannet's  bath 
Come  the  Norse  coursers  ! 
O'er  the  whale's  heritance 
Gloriously  steering ! 
W'ith  beak'd  heads  peering, 
Deep-plunging,  high-rearing, 
Tossing  their  foam  abroad, 
Shaking  white  manes  aloft, 
Creamy-neck'd,  pitchy-ribb'd, 
Steeds  of  the  Ocean ! 

O'er  the  Sun's  mirror  green 
Come  the  Norse  coursers  ! 
Trampling  its  glassy  breadth 
Into  bright  fragments ! 
Hollow-back'd,  huge-bosom'd, 
Fraught  with  mail'd  riders, 
Clanging  with  hauberks, 
Shield,  spear,  and  battle-axe, 
Canvas-wing'd,  cable-rein'd, 
Steeds  of  the  Ocean  ! 

O'er  the  wind's  ploughing-field 
Come  the  Norse  coursers  ! 
By  a  hundred  each  ridden, 
To  the  bloody  feast  bidden, 
They  rush  in  their  fierceness 
And  ravine  all  round  them! 
Their  shoulders  enriching 
With  fleecy-light  plunder, 
Fire-spreading,  foe-spurning, 
Steeds  of  the  Ocean  ! 


GEORGE    DARLEY. 


46] 


SONG  OF  THE  SUMMER  WINDS. 

UP  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne, 

O'er  the  meadow  swift  we  fly  ; 
Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 

Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 

By  the  grassy -fringed  river, 

Through  the  murmuring  reeds  we  sweep; 
Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  quiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 

At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 
While  aside  her  cheek  we're  rushing, 

Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  groves  we  rustle, 

Kissing  every  bud  we  pass, — 
As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle, 

Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 
O'er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam, 

Whirling  round  about  the  fountain 
Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  the  weeping  willows, 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 
Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 

Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 
Till  we're  at  our  play  again. 


THE  GAMBOLS  OF  CHILDREN. 

DOWN  the  dimpled  green-sward  dancing 

Bursts  a  flaxen-headed  bevy, 
Bud-lipt  boys  and  girls  advancing, 

Love's  irregular  little  levy. 

Rows  of  liquid  eyes  in  laughter, 

How  they  glimmer,  how  they  quiver ! 

Sparkling  one  another  after, 
Like  bright  ripples  on  a  river. 

Tipsy  band  of  rubious  faces, 

Flush'd  with  joy's  ethereal  spirit, 

Make  your  mocks  and  slv  grimaces 
At  love's  self,  and  do  not  fear  it. 


A  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

HERE  he,  your  law,  vociferous  wits, 
Strong  son  of  the  sounding  anvil,  sits; 
Black  and  sharp  his  eyebrow  edge, 
His  hand  smites  heavily  as  his  sledge — 
At  will  he  kindles  bright  discourse, 
Or  blows  it  out,  with  hlustrous  force; 
The  fiery  talk,  with  dominant  clamour, 
Moulds  as  hot  metal  with  his  hammer. 
Yet  this  swart  sinewy  boisterer, 
His  wife  and  babe  sit  smiling  near, 
All  fairness  with  all  feebleness  in  her  arms, 
Safe  in  their  innocence  arid  in  their  charms. 


SUICIDE. 

FOOL  !  I  mean  not 
That  poor-soul'd  piece  of  heroism,  self-slaughter: 


Oh 


the  miserablest  day  we  live 


There's  many  a  better  thing  to  do  than  die ! 


THE  FAIRIES. 

SUFFICE  to  say,  that  smoother  glade, 
Kept  greener  by  a  deeper  shade, 
Never  by  antler'd  form  was  trod ; 
Never  was  strown  by  that  white  crowd 
Which  nips  with  pettish  haste  the  grass; 
Never  was  lain  upon  by  lass 
In  harvest  time,  when  Love  is  tipsy, 
And  steals  to  coverts  like  a  gipsy, 
There  to  unmask  his  ruby  face 
In  unreproved  luxuriousness. 
'Tis  true,  in  brief,  of  this  sweet  place, 
What  the  tann'd  moon-bearer  did  feign 
Of  one  rich  spot  in  his  own  Spain  : 
The  part  just  o'er  it  in  the  skies 
Is  the  true  seat  of  Paradise. 

Have  you  not  oft,  in  the  still  wind, 
Heard  sylvan  notes  of  a  strange  kind, 
That  rose  one  moment,  and  then  fell, 
Swooning  away  like  a  far  knell  ? 
Listen  ! — that  wave  of  perfume  broke 
Into  sea-music,  as  I  spoke, 
Fainter  than  that  which  seems  to  roar 
On  the  moon's  silver-sanded  shore, 
When  through  the  silence  of  the  night 
Is  heard  the  ebb  and  flow  of  light. 
Oh,  shut  the  eye  and  ope  the  ear ! 
Do  you  not  hear,  or  think  you  hear, 
A  wide  hush  o'er  the  woodland  pass 
Like  distant  waving  fields  of  grass  ! — 
Voices  ! — ho  !  ho ! — a  band  is  coming, 
Loud  as  ten  thousand  bees  a-humrning, 
Or  ranks  of  little  merry  men 
Trornboning  deeply  from  the  glen, 
And  now  as  if  they  changed,  and  rung 
Their  citterns  small,  and  riband-slung. 
Over  their  gallant  shoulders  hung! — 
A  chant !  a  chant !  that  swoons  and  swells 
Like  soft  winds  jangling  meadow-bells ; 
Now  brave,  as  when  in  Flora's  bower 
Gay  Zephyr  blows  a  trumpet-flower; 
Now  thrilling  fine,  and  sharp,  and  clear, 
Like  Dian's  moonbeam  dulcimer; 
But  mix'd  with  whoops,  and  infant  laughter, 
Shouts  following  one  another  after, 
As  on  a  hearty  holyday 
When  youth  is  flush  and  full  of  May ; 
Small  shouts,  indeed,  as  wild  bees  knew 
Both  how  to  hum,  and  holloa  too. 
What !  is  the  living  meadow  sown 
With  dragon-teeth,  as  long  agone  1 
Or  is  an  army  on  the  plains 
Of  this  sweet  clime,  to  fight  with  cranes  ! 
Helmet  and  hauberk,  pike  and  lance, 
Gorget  and  glaive  through  the  long  grass  glance; 
Red-men,  and  blue-men,  and  bufl-mon,  small, 
Loud-mouth'd  captains,  and  ensigns  tall, 


462 


GEORGE    BARLEY. 


Grenadiers,  lightbobs,  inch-people  all, 
They  corne  !  they  come !  with  martial  blore 
Clearing  a  terrible  path  before  ; 
Ruffle  the  high-peak 'd  flags  i'  the  wind, 
Mourn  the  long-answering  trumpets  behind, 
Telling  how  deep  the  close  files  are — 
Make  way  for  the  stalwarth  sons  of  war ! 
Hurrah  !  the  bluff-cheek'd  bugle  band, 
Each  with  a  loud  reed  in  his  hand  ! 
Hurrah  !  the  pattering  company, 
Each  with  a  drum-bell  at  his  knee ! 
Hurrah  !  the  sash-capt  cymbal  swingers  ! 
Hurrah  !  the  klingle-klangle  ringers  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  elf-knights  enter, 
Each  with  his  grasshopper  at  a  canter ! 
His  tough  spear  of  a  wild  oat  made, 
His  good  sword  of  a  grassy  blade, 
His  buckram  suit  of  shining  laurel, 
His  shield  of  bark,  emboss'd  with  coral ; 
See  how  the  plumy  champion  keeps 
His  proud  steed  clambering  on  his  hips, 
With  foaming  jaw  pinn'd  to  his  breast, 
Blood-rolling  eyes,  and  arched  crest ; 
Over  his  and  his  rider's  head 
A  broad-sheet  butterfly  banner  spread, 
Swoops  round  the  staff  in  varying  form, 
Flouts  the  soft  breeze,  but  courts  the  storm. 

Hard  on  the  prancing  heel  of  these 
Come  on  the  pigmy  Thyades; 
Mimics  and  mummers,  masqueraders, 
Soft  flutists  and  sweet  serenaders 
Guitarring  o'er  the  level  green, 
Or  tapping  the  parch'd  tambourine, 
As  swaying  to,  and  swaying  fro, 
Over  the  stooping  flowers  they  go, 
That  laugh  within  their  greeny  breasts 
To  feel  such  light  feet  on  their  crests, 
And  ev'n  themselves  a-dancing  seem 
Under  the  weight  that  presses  them. 

But  hark !  the  trumpet's  royal  clangour 
Strikes  silence  with  a  voice  of  anger : 
Raising  its  broad  mouth  to  the  sun 
As  he  would  bring  Apollo  down, 
The  in-back'd,  swoln,  elf-winder  fills 
With  its  great  roar  the  fairy  hills ; 
Each  woodland  tuft  for  terror  shakes, 
The  field-mouse  in  her  mansion  quakes, 
The  heart-struck  wren  falls  through  the  branches, 
Wild  stares  the  earwig  on  his  haunches ; 
From  trees  which  mortals  take  for  flowers, 
Leaves  of  all  hues  fall  off  in  showers ; 
So  strong  the  blast,  the  voice  so  dread, 
'T  would  wake  the  very  fairy  dead  ! 

Disparted  now,  half  to  each  side, 
Athwart  the  curled  moss  they  glide, 
Then  wheel  and  front,  to  edge  the  scene, 
Leaving  a  spacious  glade  between ; 
With  small  round  eyes  that  twinkle  bright 
As  moon-tears  on  the  grass  of  night, 
They  stand  spectorial,  anxious  all, 
Like  guests  ranged  down  a  dancing  hall, 


Some  graceful  pair,  or  more  to  see 
Winding  along  in  melody. 

Nor  pine  their  little  orbs  in  vain, 
For  borne  in  with  an  oaten  strain 
Three  pretty  Graces,  arm-entwined, 
Reel  in  the  light  curls  of  the  wind  ; 
Their  flimsy  pinions  sprouted  high 
Lift  them  half-dancing  as  they  fly ; 
Like  a  bright  wheel  spun  on  its  side 
The  rapt  three  round  their  centre  slide, 
And  as  their  circling  has  no  end 
Voice  into  sister  voice  they  blend, 
Weaving  a  labyrinthian  song 
Wild  as  the  rings  they  trace  along. 


A  RURAL   RETREAT. 

ENTER   JOHN   OF   SALISBURY   WITH   A    BOOK. 

John  of  S.     Formosam  resonare  doces  Amaryl- 
llda  sylvas. 

LET  me  pause  here,,  both  tongue  and  foot ;  such 

melody 

Of  words  doth  strike  the  wild-birds  mute  to  hear  it ! 
Honey-lipp'd  Virgil,  'tis  an  ignorant  truth 
To  name  thee — Sorcerer ;  for  thou  dost  indeed 
Enchant  by  happiest  art ! — Here  is  a  place 
To  meditate  thy  sylvan  music  in, 
Which  seems  the  very  echo  of  these  woods, 
As  if  some  dryad  taught  thee  to  resound  it. 
Oh  gentle  breeze,  what  lyrist  of  the  air 
Tunes  her  soft  chord  with  visionary  hand 
To  make  thy  voice  so  dulcet]     Oh  ye  boughs 
Whispering  with  numerous  lips  your  kisses  close 
How  sweet  ye  mingle  secret  words  and  sighs  ! 
Doth  not  this  work  grow  warmer  with  the  hum 
Of  fervent  bees,  blithe  murmurers  at  their  toil, 
Minstrels  most  bland  ]  Here  the  dim  cushat,  perch'd 
Within  his  pendulous  arbour,  plaintive  woos, 
With  restless  love-call,  his  ne'er  distant  mate ; 
While  changeful  choirs  do  flit  from  tree  to  tree, 
All  various  in  their  notes,  yet  chiming  all 
Involuntary,  like  the  songs  of  cherubim. 
Oh,  how  by  accident,  apt  as  art,  drops  in 
Each  tone  to  make  the  whole  harmonial.  [sounds 
And  when  need  were,  thousands  of  wandering 
Though  aimless,  would,  with  exquisite  error  sad, 
Fill  up  the  diapason  !     Pleasant  din  ! 
So  fine  that  even  the  cricket  can  be  heard  [mark'd 
Soft  fluttering  through  the  grass.     Long  have  I 
The  silver  toll  of  a  clear-dipping  well 
Peal  in  its  bright  parishioners,  ouphes  and  elves : 
'T  is  nigh  me,  certes  ! — I  will  peer  between 
These  honeysuckles  for  it — Lo  !  in  verity 
A  Sylph,  with  veil-fallen  hair  down  to  her  feet, 
Bending  her  o'er  the  waters,  and  I  think 
Giving  them  purer  crystal  from  her  eyes — 
Oh  learned  John,  but  thou  art  grown  fantastic 
As  a  romancer ! 


THOMAS    WADE. 


MR.  WADE  is  the  author  of  Mundi  et  Cordis 
Carmina,  Helena,  the  Jew  of  Arragon,  the 
Death  of  Ginderode  and  Prothanasia,  the  last 
of  which  is  founded  on  a  passage  in  the  corre- 
spondenceofBETTiNEBRENTiANO  with  GOETHE. 


LEIGH  HUNT  says  of  him,  "  He  is  a  poet  ,•  he  is 
overflowing  with  fancy  and  susceptibility,  and 
not  without  the  finest  subtleties  of  imagina- 
tion." Praise  from  a  high  source,  and  not 
ill  deserved. 


A  PROPHECY. 

THRIVE  is  a  mighty  dawning  on  the  earth, 
Of  human  glory  :  dreams  unknown  before 
Fill  the  mind's  boundless  world,  and  wondrous  birth 
Is  given  to  great  thought :  or  the  deep-drawn  lore, 
But  late  a  hidden  fount,  at  which  a  few 
Quaff'd  and  were  glad,  is  now  a  flowing  river, 
Which  the  parch'd  nations  may  approach  and  view, 
Kneel  down  and  drink,  or  float  in  it  for  ever: 
The  bonds  of  spirit  are  asunder  broken, 
And  matter  makes  a  very  sport  of  distance ; 
On  every  side  appears  a  silent  token 
Of  what  will  be  hereafter,  when  existence 
Shall  even  become  a  pure  and  equal  thing, 
And  earth  sweep  high  as  heaven,  on  solemn  wing. 


VOLITION. 

GOD  will'd  creation  :  but  creation  was  not 
The  cause  of  that  Almighty  Will  of  God, 
But  that  great  God's  desire  of  emanation: 
Beauty  of  human  love  the  object  is ; 
But  love's  sweet  cause  lives  in  the  soul's  desire 
For  intellectual,  sensual  sympathies  : 
Seeing  a  plain-plumed  bird,  in  whose  deep  throat 
We  know  the  richest  power  of  music  dwells, 
We  long  to  hear  its  linked  melodies : 
Scenting  a  far-off  flower's  most  sweet  perfume, 
That  gives  its  balm  of  life  to  every  wind, 
We  crave  to  mark  the  beauty  of  its  bloom : 
But  bird  nor  flower  is  that  volition's  cause:  [laws. 
But  music  and  fine  grace,  graven  on  the  soul,  like 


THE  BRIDE. 

LET  the  trim  tapers  burn  exceeding  brightly  ! 
And  the  white  bed  be  deck'd  as  for  a  goddess, 
Who  must  be  pillow'd,  like  high  vesper,  nightly 
On  couch  ethereal !     Be  the  curtains  fleecy, 
Like  vesper's  fairest  when  calm  nights  are  breezy — 
Transparent,  parting — showing  what  they  hide, 
Or  strive  to  veil — by  mystery  deified  ! 
The  floor,  gold-carpet,  that  her  /one  and  boddice 
May  lie  in  honour  where  they  gently  fall, 
Slow  loosened  from  her  form  symmetrical — 
Like  mist  from  sunlight.   Burn,  sweet  odours,  burn! 
For  incense  at  the  altar  of  her  pleasure  ! 
Let  music  breathe  with  a  voluptuous  measure, 
And  witchcrafts  trance  her  wheresoe'er  she  turn. 


THE  POETRY  OF  EARTH. 

"THE  Poetry  of  Earth  is  never  dead," 
Even  in  the  cluster'd  haunts  of  plodding  men. 
Before  a  door  in  citied  underground, 
Lies  a  man-loving,  faith-expression'd  hound- 
To  pastoral  hills  forth  tending  us;  to  den 
Of  daring  bandit ;  and  to  regions  dread 
Of  mountain-snows,  where  others  of  its  kind 
Tend  upon  man's,  as  with  a  human  mind. 
A  golden  beetle  on  the  dusty  steps 
Crawls,  of  a  wayside-plying  vehicle, 
Where  wending  men  swarm  thick  and  gloomily: 
We  gaze;  and  see  beneath  the  ripening  sky 
The  harvest  glisten  ;  and  that  creature  creeps 
Upon  the  sunny  corn,  radiantly  visible  ! 


THE  SERE  OAK-LEAVES. 

WHY  do  ye  rustle  in  this  vernal  wind, 
Sere  leaves !  shaking  a  dread  prophetic  shroud 
Over  the  very  cradle  of  the  spring  1 
Like  pertinacious  Age,  with  warnings  loud, 
Dinning  the  grave  into  an  infant's  mind, 
And  shadowing  death  on  life's  first  imaging  ! 
Why  to  these  teeming  branches  do  ye  cling, 
And  with  your  argument  renascence  cloud; 
Whilst  every  creature  of  new  birth  is  proud, 
And  in  unstain'd  existence  revelling] 
Fall,  and  a  grave  within  the  centre  find  ! 
And  do  not  thus,  whilst  all  the  sweet  birds  sing, 
The  insects  glitter,  and  the  flower'd  grass  waves, 
Blight  us  with  thoughts  of  winter  and  our  graves ! 


THE  SWAN-AVIARY. 

A  THOUSAND  swans  are  o'er  the  waters  sailing, 
And  others  in  the  reeds  and  rushes  brood, 
And  more  are  flying  o'er  the  sunny  flood; 
And  all  move  with  a  grandeur  so  prevailing, 
That  long  we  stand,  without  a  breath  inhaling, 
In  admiration  of  their  multitude, 
And  the  majestic  grace  with  which  endued 
They  float  upon  the  waves,  their  pride  regaling. 
The  sky  is  blue  and  golden;  clear  as  glass, 
The  sea  sweeps  richly  on  the  glowing  shingle ; 
All  vernal  hues  in  the  near  woods  commingle; 
And  exquisite  beauty  waves  along  the  grass; 
But  these  things  seem  but  humbly  tributary 
To  the  white  pomp  of  that  vast  aviary  ! 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


MR.  BROWNING'S  first  appearance  as  an  au- 
thor was  in  1835,  when  he  published  Para- 
celsus, a  dramatic  poem  founded  on  the  his- 
tory of  the  celebrated  professor  of  that  name  at 
Basil,  in  the  days  of  LUTHER  and  ERASMUS. 
He  has  since  written  three  tragedies,  entitled 
Strafford,  King  Victor  and  King  Charles,  and 
A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon;  and  many  shorter 
pieces,  most  of  which  are  included  in  his 
Bells  and  Pomegranates,  issued  by  Moxon  in 
1843.  There  are  in  Mr.  BROWNING'S  writings 
vigour,  force  of  character,  and  passionate 
strength ;  but  unhappily  few  of  them  are 
adapted  to  the  popular  apprehension.  They 
are  not  easily  read  in  the  boudoir,  where  the 


perusal  of  MOORE  and  ROGERS  is  the  highest 
exertion  of  intellect.  Indeed,  with  some  strik- 
ing merits  which  will  give  them  an  influence 
in  the  formation  of  the  taste  of  another  gene- 
ration, they  are  deformed  by  so  many  novel- 
ties of  construction,  and  affectations  of  various 
kinds,  that  few  will  have  patience  to  wade 
through  his  marshes  to  cull  the  flowers  with 
which  they  are  scattered.  Mr.  BROWNING'S 
•Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  was  acted  in  1843, 
under  the  management  of  Mr.  MACREADY. 
Though  its  dramatic  qualities  were  in  direct 
opposition  to  the  prevailing  style  of  the  stage, 
it  met  with  a  hearty  reception  from  the  best 
critics. 


EXTRACT  FROM  PARACELSUS. 

WITH  still  a  flying  point  of  bliss  remote, 
A  happiness  in  store  afar,  a  sphere 
Of  distant  glory  in  full  view,  thus  climbs 
Pleasure  its  heights  for  ever  and  for  ever ! 
The  centre-fire  heaves  underneath  the  earth, 
And  the  earth  changes  like  a  human  face ; 
The  molten  ore  bursts  up  among  the  rocks, 
Winds  into  the  stone's  heart,  outbranches  bright 
In  hidden  mines,  spots  barren  river-beds, 
Crumbles  into  fine  sand  where  sunbeams  bask — 
God  joys  therein ! . . . .  Earth  is  a  wintry  clod  ; 
But  spring-wind,  like  a  dancing  psaltress,  passes 
Over  its  breast  to  waken  it ;  rare  verdure 
Buds  here  and  there  upon  rough  banks,  between 
The  wither'd  tree-roots  and  the  cracks  of  frost ; 
The  grass  grows  bright,  the  boughs  are  swollen  with 
Like  chrysalids  impatient  for  the  air;         [blooms, 
The  shining  dorrs  are  busy;  beetles  run 
Along  the  furrows,  ants  make  their  ado ; 
Above  birds  fly  in  merry  flocks — the  lark 
Soars  up  and  up,  shivering  for  very  joy; 
Afar  the  ocean  sleeps ;  white  fishing-gulls 
Flit  where  the  strand  is  purple  with  its  tribe 
Of  nested  limpets ;  savage  creatures  seek 
Their  loves  in  wood  and  plain;  and  God  renews 
His  ancient  rapture  !     Thus  he  dwells  in  all, 
From  life's  minute  beginnings,  up  at  last 
To  man — the  consummation  of  this  scheme 
Of  being — the  completion  of  this  sphere 
Of  life :  whose  attributes  had  here  and  there 
Been  scatter'd  o'er  the  visible  world  before, 
Asking  to  he  combined — dim  fragments  meant 
To  be  united  in  some  wondrous  whole — 
Imperfect  qualities  throughout  creation. 
Suggesting  some  one  creature  yet  to  make — 
4fit 


some  point 

Whereto  those  wandering  rays  should  all  converge ; 

Might:  neither  put  forth  blindly,  nor  controll'd 

Calmly  by  perfect  knowledge — to  be  used 

At  risk — inspired  or  check'd  by  hope  and  fear; 

Knowledge  :  not  intuition,  but  the  slow 

Uncertain  fruit  of  an  enhancing  toil, 

Strengthen'd  by  love ;  love :  not  serenely  pure, 

But  power  from  weakness,  like  a  chance-sown  plant, 

Which. caston  stubborn  soil,  puts  forth  changed  buds, 

And  softer  stains,  unknown  in  happier  climes  : 

A  blind,  unfailing,  and  devoted  love, 

And  half-enlighten'd,  often-checker'd  trust 

Anticipations,  hints  of  these  and  more 

Are  strewn  confusedly  everywhere — all  seek 

An  object  to  possess  and  stamp  their  own ; 

All  shape  out  dimly  the  forthcoming  race, 

The  heir  of  hopes  too  fair  to  turn  out  false, 

And  man  appears  at  last :  so  far  the  seal 

Is  put  on  life :  one  stage  of  being  complete, 

One  scheme  wound  up;  and  from  the  grand  result 

A  supplementary  reflux  of  light 

Illustrates  all  the  inferior  grades,  explains 

Each  back  step  in  the  circle ;  not  alone 

The  clear  dawn  of  those  qualities  shines  out, 

But  the  new  glory  mixes  with  the  heaven 

And  earth.     Man,  once  descried,  imprints  forever 

His  presence  on  all  lifeless  things — the  winds 

Are  henceforth  voices,  wailing,  or  a  shout 

A  querulous  mutter,  or  a  quick,  gay  laugh — 

Never  a  senseless  gust  now  man  is  born  : 

The  herded  pines  commune, and  have  drv>p  thoughts, 

A  secret  they  assemble  to  discuss,  [glare 

When  the  sun  drops  behind  their  trunks  which 

Like  grates  of  hell :  the  peerless  cup  afloat 

Of  the  lake-lily  is  an  urn;  some  nymph 

Swims  bearing  hisih  above  her  head  :   no  bird 

Whistles  unseen,  but  through  the  gaps  above 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


465 


That  let  light  in  upon  the  gloomy  woods, 

A  shape  peeps  from  the  breezy  forest-top, 

Arch  with  small  pucker' d  mouth  and  mocking  eye: 

The  morn  has  enterprise — deep  quiet  droops 

With  evening — triumph  when  the  sun  takes  rest — 

Voluptuous  transport  when  the  corn-fields  ripen 

Beneath  a  warm  moon  like  a  happy  face  : 

And  this  to  fill  us  with  regard  for  man, 

Deep  apprehension  of  his  passing  worth, 

Desire  to  work  his  proper  nature  out, 

To  ascertain  his  rank  and  final  place, 

For  all  these  things  tend  upward — progress  is 

The  law  of  life — man  is  not  man  as  yet  : 

Nor  shall  I  deem  his  object  served,  his  end 

Attain'd,  his  genuine  strength  put  fairly  out, 

While  only  here  and  there  a  star  dispels 

The  darkness — here  and  there  a  towering  mind 

O'erlooks  its  crawling  fellows :  when  the  host 

Is  out  at  once  to  the  despair  of  night ; 

When  all  mankind  is  perfected  alike, 

Equal  in  full-blown  powers — then,  not  till  then, 

Begins  the  general  infancy  of  man. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  SORDELLO. 
CARYATIDES   BY  SUNSET. 

BUT  quick 

To  the  main  wonder  now.  A  vault,  see ;  thick 
Black  shade  about  the  ceiling,  through  fine  slits 
Across  the  buttress  suffer  light  by  fits 
Upon  a  marvel  in  the  midst :  nay,  stoop — 
A  dullish  gray-streak'd  cumbrous  font,  a  group 
Round  it,  each  side  of  it,  where'er  one  sees, 
Upholds  it — shrinking  caryatides 
Of  just-tinged  marble  like  Eve's  lilied  flesh 
Beneath  her  Maker's  finger,  when  the  fresh 
First  pulse  of  life  shot  brightening  the  snow : 
The  font's  edge  burdens  every  shoulder,  so 
They  muse  upon  the  ground,  eyelids  half  closed, 
Some,  with  meek  arms  behind  their  backs  disposed, 
Some,  cross'd  above  their  bosoms,  some,  to  veil 
Their  eyes,  some,  propping  chin  and  cheek  so  pale, 
Some,  hanging  slack  an  utter  helpless  length 
Dead  as  a  buried  vestal  whose  whole  strength 
Goes  when  the  grate  above  shuts  heavily ; 
So  dwell  these  noiseless  girls,  patient  to  see, 
Like  priestesses  because  of  sin  impure 
Penanced  for  ever,  who  resign'd  endure, 
Having  that  once  drunk  sweetness  to  the  dregs ; 
And  every  eve  Sordello's  visit  begs 
Pardon  for  them :  constant  as  eve  he  came 
To  sit  beside  each  in  her  turn,  the  same 
As  one  of  them,  a  certain  space :  and  awe 
Made  a  great  indistinctness,  till  he  saw 
Sunset  slant  cheerful  through  the  buttress  chinks, 
Gold  seven  times  globed;  surely  our  maiden  shrinks, 
And  a  smile  stirs  her  as  if  one  faint  grain 
Her  load  were  lighten'd,  one  shade  less  the  stain 
Obscured  her  forehead,  yet  one  more  bead  slipt 
From  off'  the  rosary  whereby  the  crypt 
Keeps  count  of  the  contritions  of  its  charge? 
Then  with  a  step  more  light,  a  heart  more  large, 
He  may  depart,  leave  her  and  every  one 
To  linger  out  the  penance  in  mute  stone. 
59 


EG{,AMOR. 

HE,  no  genius  rare, 
Transfiguring  in  fire  or  wave  or  air 
At  will,  but  a  poor  gnome  that,  cloister'd  up 
In  some  rock-chamber  with  his  agate  cup, 
His  topaz  rod,  his  seed-pearl,  in  these  few 
And  their  arrangement  finds  enough  to  do 
For  his  best  art.    Then,  how  he  loved  that  art ! 
The  calling  marking  him  a  man  apart 
From  men — one  not  to  care,  take  counsel  for 
Cold  hearts,  comfortless  faces,  (Eglamor 
Was  neediest  of  his  tribe,)  since  verse,  the  gift, 
Was  his,  and  men,  the  whole  of  them,  must  shift 
Without  it,  e'en  content  themselves  with  wealth 
And  pomp  and  power,  snatching  a  life  by  stealth. 
So  Eglamor  was  not  without  his  pride ! 
The  sorriest  bat  which  cowers  through  noontide 
While  other  birds  are  jocund,  has  one  time 
When  moon  and  stars  are  blinded,  and  the  prime 
Of  earth  is  its  to  claim,  nor  lind  a  peer. 


AN  INCIDENT  AT  RATISBON. 

You  know  we  French  storm'd  Ratisbon: 

A  rnile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming  day; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  lock'd  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 
Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall ;" 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reach'd  the  mound. 
Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
Just  by  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compress'd, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through,) 
You  look'd  twice  e'er  you"  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 
«  Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perch'd  him."  The  chief's  eye  flash'd ;  his  plans 

Soar'd  up  again  like  fire. 
The  chief's  eye  flash'd  ;  but  presently 

Soften'd  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother  eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes  : 
«  You're  wounded !"    "  Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touch'd  to  the  quick,  he  said  ; 
"I'm  kill'd,  sire  !"    And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


RICHARD    HENRY    HORNE. 


Mr.  HORNE  belongs  to  the  intellectual  bro- 
therhood of  whom  we  have  already  given 
specimens  in  the  notices  of  DARLEY,  BROWN- 
ING, and  others.  He  has  written  several  dra- 
matic poems  and  sketches,  among  which  are 
The  Death  of  Marlowe,  Cosmo  de'  Medici, 
and  Gregory  the  Seventh,  all  of  which  have 
met  the  approval  of  the  critics.  His  latest 
production  (excepting  The  New  Spirit  of  the 
Age,  of  which  he  acknowledges  himself  to  be 
the  editor  only)  is  Orion,  an  epic  poem, 
which,  aside  from  its  intrinsic  merits,  will 
find  its  record  in  the  Curiosities  of  Litera- 
ture for  the  novel  circumstances  of  its  pub- 
lication. It  was  offered  to  the  public  at  vari- 
ous prices,  commencing  with  a  farthing  and 
rising  through  successive  stages  to  a  half- 
crown  in  its  fourth  edition.  In  Orion  we  have 
modern  transcendentalism  wedded  to  the  old 
Greek  mythology.  Orion,  wandering  in  the 
mountains  of  Chios,  encounters  Artemis,  wrho 
loves  him,  and  by  her  love  elevates  his  na- 
ture, but  fails  to  make  him  happy.  In  a  dream 
he  sees  Merope,  the  daughter  of  (Enopion, 
king  of  Chios,  who  warns  him  to  beware  of 
Artemis,  and  on  awaking  he  seeks  and  wins 
the  affection  of  the  princess.  The  king  de- 
rides his  pretensions,  but  promises  him  the 
hand  of  his  daughter  if  in  six  days  he  will 
destroy  the  beasts  and  serpents  of  the  island. 


This  he  accomplishes,  but  (Enopion  hesitat- 
ing to  fulfil  his  agreement,  the  giants  make 
war  against  him  and  carry  off  Merope,  with 
whom  Orion  lives  happily  in  a  secluded  grove 
until  the  king  discovers  his  retreat  and  de- 
prives him  of  sight.  In  his  wretchedness, 
deserted  by  Merope,  he  seeks  the  aid  of  Eos, 
who  unseals  his  eyes  and  loves  him  with  an 
affection  which  satisfies  his  soul.  The  jea- 
lous Artemis  now  destroys  him;  but  repents, 
and  joins  with  Eos  in  a  prayer  to  Zeus  for 
the  restoration  of  his  life.  The  prayer  is 
granted ;  Orion  is  made  immortal,  placed 
among  the  constellations,  and  enjoys  for  ever 
the  love  of  Eos.  This  slight  outline  of  the 
fable  is  necessary  to  a  proper  understanding 
of  the  extracts  from  the  poem  which  are  given 
in  this  volume. 

Mr.  HORNE  is  also  author  of  an  Essay  on 
Tragic  Influence,  and  an  Introduction  to  Sehle- 
gePs  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Literature  and 
Art;  and  he  was  associated  with  WORDS- 
WORTH, LEIGH  HUNT,  Miss  BARRETT,  and 
others,  in  the  production  of  Chaucer  Modern- 
ized, to  which  he  prefixed  an  admirable  essay 
on  the  riches  of  English  poetry  and  the  de- 
velopment of  the  principles  of  versification, 
by  which  the  rhythm  of  CHAUCER  is  fully 
sustained,  and  which  no  poet  who  has  a  love 
for  his  art  should  fail  to  read. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  ORION. 


THE  FIRST  APPEARANCE  OF  ORION. 

THE  scene  in  front  two  sloping  mountains'  sides 
Display'd ;  in  shadow  one  and  one  in  light. 
The  loftiest  on  its  summit  now  sustain'd 
The  sun-beams,  raying  like  a  mighty  wheel 
Half  seen,  which  left  the  forward  surface  dark 
In  its  full  breadth  of  shade ;  the  coming  sun 
Hidden  as  yet  behind :  the  other  mount, 
Slanting  transverse,  swept  with  an  eastward  face 
Catching  the  golden  light.     Now  while  the  peal 
Of  the  ascending  chase  told  that  the  rout 
Still  midway  rent  the  thickets,  suddenly 
Along  the  broad  and  sunny  slope  appear'd 
The  shadow  of  a  stag  that  fled  across, 
Followed  by  a  giant's  shadow  with  a  spear. 
466 


MORNING. 

O'EK  meadows  green  or  solitary  lawn, 
When  birds  appear  earth's  sole  inhabitants, 
The  long,  clear  shadows  of  the  morning  differ 
From  those  of  eve,  which  are  more  soft  and  vague, 
Suggestive  of  past  days  and  mellow'd  grief. 
The  lights  of  morning,  even  as  her  shades, 
Are  architectural,  and  pre-eminent 
In  quiet  freshness,  midst  the  pause  that  holds 
Prelusive  energies.     All  life  awakes, 
Morn  comes  at  first  with  white,  uncertain  light ; 
Then  takes  a  faint  red,  like  an  opening  bud 
Seen  through  gray  mist;  the  mist  clears  of;  the  sky 
Unfolds;  grows  ruddy;  takes  a  crimson  flush; 
Puts  forth  bright  sprigs  of  gold, — which  soon  ex- 
panding 


RICHARD    HENRY    HORNE. 


467 


In  saffron,  thence  pure  golden  shines  the  morn ; 
Uplifts  its  clear,  bright  fabric  of  white  clouds, 
All  tinted,  like  a  shell  of  polish'd  pearl, 
With  varied  glancings,  violet  gleam  and  blush ; 
Embraces  nature;  and  then  passes  on, 
Leaving  the  sun  to  perfect  his  great  work. 

SUMMER  NOON. 

THT/HE  was  a  slumbrous  silence  in  the  air, 
By  noon-tide's  sultry  murmurs  from  without 
Made  more  oblivious.    Not  a  pipe  was  heard 
From  field  or  wood  ;  but  the  grave  beetle's  drone 
Pass'd  near  the  entrance :  once  the  cuckoo  call'd 
O'er  distant  meads,  and  once  a  horn  began 
Melodious  plaint,  then  died  away.    A  sound 
Of  murmurous  music  yet  was  in  the  breeze, 
For  silver  gnats  that  harp  on  glassy  strings, 
And  rise  and  fall  in  sparkling  clouds,  sustairi'd 
Their  dizzy  dances  o'er  the  seething  meads. 


BUILDING  OF  THE  PALACE  OF  POSEIDON. 

Foil  him  I  built  a  palace  underground, 
Of  iron,  black  and  rough  as  his  own  hands. 
Deep  in  the  groaning,  drsembowel'd  earth, 
The  tower-broad  pillars  and  huge  stanchions, 
And  slant  supporting  wedges  I  set  up, 
Aided  by  the  Cyclops  who  obey'd  my  voice, 
Which  through  the  metal  fabric  rang  and  peal'd 
In  orders  echoing  far,  like  thunder-dreams. 
With  arches,  galleries,  and  domes  all  carved — 
So  that  great  figures  started  from  the  roof 
And  lofty  coignes,  or  sat  and  downward  gazed    ; 
On  those  who  strode  below  and  gazed  above — 
I  filTd  it;  in  the  centre  framed  a  hall  : 
Central  in  that,  a  throne  ;  and  for  the  light, 
Forged  mighty  hammers  that  should  rise  and  fall 
On  slanted  rocks  of  granite  and  of  flint, 
Work'd  by  a  torrent,  for  whose  passage  down 
A  chasm  I  hew'd.  And  here  the  god  could  take, 
Midst  showery  sparks  and  swathes  of  broad,  gold  fire, 
His  lone  repose,  lull'd  by  the  sounds  he  loved  ; 
Or,  casting  back  the  hammer-heads  till  tfcey  choked 
The  water's  course,  enjoy,  if  so  he  wish'd, 
Midnight  tremendous,  silence,  and  iron  sleep. 


ORION'S    EXTIRPATION   OF   THE    BEASTS 
FROM  CHIOS. 

FRESH  trees  he  fell'd  and  wove 
More  barriers  and  fences ;  inaccessible 
To  fiercest  charge  of  droves,  and  to  o'erleap 
Impossible.     These  walls  he  so  arranged 
That  to  a  common  centre  each  should  force 
The  flight  of  those  pursued ;  and  from  that  centre 
Diverged  three  outlets :  one,  the  wide  expanse 
Which  from  the  rocks  and  inland  forests  led ; 
One  was  the  clear-skied  windy  gap  above 
A  precipice  ;  the  third,  a  long  ravine  fran 

Which  through  steep  slopes,  down  to  the  seashore 
Winding,  arid  then  direct  into  the  sea. 

Orion,  in  each  hand 
Waving  a  torch,  his  course  at  night  began, 


Through  wildest  haunts  and  lairs  of  savage  beasts. 
With  long-drawn  howl,  before  him  troop'd  the 

wolves — 

The  panthers,  terror-stricken,  and  the  bears 
With  wonder  and  gruff  rage ;  from  desolate  crags 
Leering  hyenas,  griffin,  hippogriff, 
Skulk'd,  or  sprang  madly,  as  the  tossing  brands 
Flash'd  through  themidnightnooksandhollowscold, 
Sudden  as  fire  from  flint;  o'er  crashing  thickets, 
With  crouch'd  head  and  curl'd  fangs  dash'd  the  wild 
Gnashing  forth  on  with  reckless  impulses,     [boar, 
While  the  clear-purposed  fox  crept  closely  down 
Into  the  underwood,  to  let  the  storm, 
Whate'er  its  cause,  pass  over.  Through  dark  fens, 
Marshes,  green  rushy  swamps,  and  margins  reedy, 
Orion  held  his  way — and  rolling  shapes 
Of  serpent  and  of  dragon  moved  before  him 
With  high-rear'd  crests,  swan-like,  yet  terrible, 
And  often  looking  back  with  gem-like  eyes. 
All  night  Orion  urged  his  rapid  course 
In  the  vex'd  rear  of  the  swift-droving  din, 
And  when  the  dawn  had  peer'd,  the  monsters  all 
Were  hemm'd  in  barriers.  These  he  now  o'erheap'd 
With  fuel  through  the  day,  and  when  again 
Night  darken'd,  and  the  sea  a  gulf-like  voice 
Sent  forth,  the  barriers  at  all  points  he  fired, 
Mid  prayers  to  Hephaestos  and  his  ocean-sire. 
Soon  as  the  flames  had  eaten  out  a  gap 
In  the  great  barrier  fronting  the  ravine 
That  ran  down  to  the  sea,  Orion  grasp'd 
Two  blazing  boughs ;  one  high  in  air  he  raised, 
The  other,  with  its  roaring  foliage,  trail'd 
Behind  him  as  he  sped.     Onward  the  droves 
Of  frantic  creatures  with  one  impulse  roll'd 
Before  this  night-devouring  thing  of  flames, 
With  multitudinous  voice  and  downward  sweep 
Into  the  sea,  which  now  first  knew  a  tide, 
And,  ere  they  made  one  effort  to  regain 
The  shore,  had  caught  them  in  its  flowing  arms, 
And  bore  them  past  all  hope.     The  living  mass, 
Dark  heaving  o'er  the  waves  resistlessly, 
At  length,  in  distance  seem'd  a  circle  small, 
Midst  which  one  creature  in  the  centre  rose, 
Conspicuous  in  the  long,  red,  quivering  gleams 
That  from  the  dyingbrands  stream'd  o'er  the  waves. 
It  was  the  oldest  dragon  of  the  fens, 
Whose  forky  flag-wings  and  horn-crested  head 
O'er  crags  and  marshes  regal  sway  had  held ; 
And  now  he  rose  up  like  an  embodied  curse, 
From  all  thedoom'd,  fast  sinking — some  just  sunk — 
Look'd  landward  o'er  the  sea,  and  flapp'd  his  vans, 
Until  Poseidon  drew  them  swirling  down. 

RESTORATION  OF  ORION. 

Now  had  Poseidon  with  tridental  spear 
Tom  up  the  smitten  sea,  which  raged  on  high 
With  grief  and  anger  for  Orion  slain ; 
And  black  Hephaestos  deep  beneath  the  earth 
A  cold  thrill  felt  through  his  metallic  veins, 
Which  soon  with  sparkling  fire  began  to  writhe 
Like  serpents,  till  from  each  volcanic  peak 
Burst  smoke  and  threatening  flames.    Day  hid  his 
And  while  the  body  of  Orion  sunk  [head, 

Drawn  down  into  the  embraces  of  the  sea, 


468 


RICHARD    HENRY    HORNE. 


The  four  winds  with  confronting  fury  arose, 
And  to  a  common  centre  drove  their  blasts, 
Which,  meeting,  hrake  like  thunder-stone,  or  shells 
Of  war,  far  scattering.     Shipwreck  fed  the  deep. 
No  moon  had  dared  the  ringing  vault  to  climb; 
No  star,  no  meteor's  steed ;  and  ancient  night 
Shook  the  dishevell'd  lightning  from  her  brows, 
Then  sank  in  deeper  gloom.     Ere  long  the  roar 
RolPd  through  a  distant  yawning  chasm  of  flame, 
Dying  away,  and  in  the  air  obscure, 
Feverish  and  trembling — like  the  breath  of  one 
Recovering  from  convulsion's  throes — appear'd 
Two  wavering  misty  shapes  upon  a  mount: 
Whence  now  a  solemn  and  reproachful  voice, 
With  broken  pauses  spake,  and  thus  lamented : 

"  Call  it  not  love ! — oh  never  yet  for  thee 
Did  love's  ambrosial  pinions  fan  the  hours, 
To  lose  themselves  in  bliss,  which  memory 
Alone  can  find,  so  to  renew  their  life, 
Thou  couldst  not  ever  thus  enjoy,  thus  give 
Thy  nature  fully  up  ;  thine  attributes, 
Whate'er  of  loveliness  or  high  estate 
They  own'd,  surrendering  all  before  love's  feast, 
And  in  his  breath  to  melt.    How  shall  we  name 
Thy  passion — ice-pure,  self-entire,  exacting 
All  worship,  for  a  limited  return? 
But  how,  ah  me  !  shall  time  record  the  hour, 
When  with  thy  bow — its  points  curved  stiffly  back, 
Like  a  snake's  neck  preparing  for  a  spring — 
Thou  stood'st  in  lurid  ire  behind  a  cloud, 
And  loosed  the  fatal  shaft!   Where  then  was  love? 
Oh  Artemis  !     Oh  miserable  queen  ! 
Call  it  pride,  jealousy,  revenge — self-love; 
No  other.    Thou  repliest  not.     Wherefore  pride? 
Thou  gavest  thyself  that  wound,  rejecting  one 
Who  to  thee  tender'd  all  his  nature ;  noble, 
Though  earth-born,  as  thou  knew'st  when  first  ye 
And  thou  not  Zeus  with  a  creator's  power     [met, 
His  being  to  re-make  ?    Thou  answerest  not. 
Why  jealous,  but  because  thou  saw'st  him  happy 
Without  thee,  tho'  cast  off  by  thee.  Then  wherefore 
Destroy  ?  Revenge,  the  champion  of  self-love, 
Can  make  his  well-known  sign.     Oh,  horrible  ! 
Despair  to  all  springs  up  from  murder'd  love, 
And  smites  revenge  with  idiotcy  of  grief, 
Seeing  itself.     But  wake,  and  look  upon 
My  loss  unutterable.   What  hast  thou  gain'd  ? 
Nothing  but  anguish ;  and  for  this  accomplish'd 
His  death,  my  loss,  and  the  earth's  loss  beside 
Of  that  much  needed  hand.     I  curse  thee  not — 
Thouhast,indeed, cursed  me — thou  know'stitwell." 

With  face  bow'd  o'er  her  bosom,  Artemis, 
As  in  sad  trance,  remain'd.    The  night  was  gone; 
The  day  had  dawn'd,  but  she  perceived  it  not; 
Nor  Eos  knew  that  any  light  had  pass'd 
From  her  rent  robes.     But  hope  unconsciously 
Grew  up  in  her,  and  yet  again  she  spake : 

"  Ah  me  !  alas  !  why  came  this  great  affliction, 
Which,  indeed,  seems  beyond  all  remedy, 
Though  scalding  tears  from  our  immortal  eyes 
Make  constant  arcs  in  heaven.    Beauty  avails  not 
Where  power  is  needed.    Seek  we,  then,  for  power, 
That  some  reviving  or  renewing  beam 
May  call  him  back,  now  pale  in  the  deep  sea. 
Thou  answerest  not.     I  think  thou  hast  a  heart, 


Which  beats  thy  reasoning  down  to  silent  truth, 
And  therefore  deem  I  thou  with  me  wilt  seek 
The  throne  of  Zeus,  who  may  receive  our  prayers, 
Nor  from  our  supplications  utterly 
Take  sorrow's  sweetness,  which  hath  secret  hope, 
Like  honey  drops  in  some  down-fallen  flower." 

Her  lofty  pallid  visage  Artemis 
Raised  slowly,  but  with  eyes  still  downward  bent 
Upon  the  ocean  rolling  dark  below, 
And  answer'd,  "  I  will  go  with  thee."    The  twain 
Departed  heavily  on  their  ascent  [reach'd 

Through  the  gray  air,  and  paused  not  till  they 
The  region  of  Olympos,  where  their  course 
Was  barrier'd  by  a  mass  of  angry  cloud 
Piled  up  in  surging  blackness,  with  a  gleam 
Of  smouldering  red  seen  through  at  intervals. 
The  sign  well  understood,  both  goddesses 
Knelt  down  before  the  cloud,  and  Artemis 
Broke  silence  first,  with  firm  yet  hollow  voice: 

"  Father  of  gods,  and  of  the  populous  earth  ! 
Who  know'st  the  thoughts  and  deeds  we  most  would 
And  also  know'st  the  secret  thrill  within,     [hide ; 
Which  owns  no  thought  nor  action,  yet  comprises 
Life's  sole  excuse  for  what  seems  worthiest  hate — 
Extremes  and  madden'd  self-opposing  springs — 
Not  always  thus  excused, — O  Zeus  !  receive 
Our  prayers,  and  chiefly  mine,  which  pardon  sue, 
Besides  the  dear  request.     Grant  that  the  life 
Of  him  these  hands,  once  dazzling  white,  have  slain, 
May  be  to  earth  restored."     More  had  she  said, 
But  the  dark  pile  of  clouds  shook  with  the  voice 
Of  Zeus,  who  answer'd  :  "  He  shall  be  restored ; 
But  not  return'd  to  earth.     His  cycle  moves 
Ascending!"     The  deep  sea  the  announcement 
And  from  beneath  its  ever-shifting  thrones  [heard; 
The  murmuring  of  a  solemn  joy  sent  up. 

The  cloud  expanded  darkly  o'er  the  heavens, 
Which,  like  a  vault  preparing  to  give  back 
The  heroic  dead,  yawn'd  with  its  sacred  gloom, 
And  iron-crown'd  Night  her  black  breath  pour'd 

around 

To  meet  the  clouds  that  from  Olympos  roll'd 
Billows  of  darkness  with  a  dirging  roar, 
WVich  by  gradations  of  high  harmony 
Merged  in  triumphal  strains.    Their  earnest  eyes 
Fill'd  with  the  darkness,  and  their  hands  still  clasp'd, 
Kneeling,  the  goddesses  bright  rays  perceived, 
Reflected,  glance  before  them.     Mute  they  rose 
With  tender  consciousness ;  and,  hand  in  hand, 
Turning,  they  saw,  slow  rising  from  the  sea, 
The  luminous  giant  clad  in  blazing  stars, 
New-born  and  trembling  fromtheir  Maker's  breath — 
Divine,  refulgent  effluence  of  love. 
With  pale  gold  shield,  like  a  translucent  moon 
Through  which  the  morning  with  ascending  cheek 
Sheds  a  soft  blush,  warming  cerulean  veins ; 
With  radiant  belt  of  glory,  typical 
Of  happy  change  that  o'er  the  zodiac  round 
Of  the  world's  monstrous  fantasies  shall  come; 
And  in  his  hand  a  sword  of  peaceful  power, 
Streaming  like  a  meteor  to  direct  the  earth 
To  victory  over  life's  distress,  and  show    [glooms; 
The  future  path  whose  light  runs  through  death's 
In  grandeur,  like  the  birth  of  motion,  rose 
The  glorious  giant,  towards  his  place  in  heaven. 


FRANCES  KEMBLE  BUTLER. 


MRS.  BUTLER  is  a  daughter  of  CHARLES 
KEMBLE,  and  a  niece  of  JOHN  PHILIP  KEMBLE 
and  Mrs.  SIDDONS.  After  a  brilliant  career 
at  the  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  she  in  1832  came 
with  her  father  to  the  United  States,  where 
she  played  with  unprecedented  success  in  the 
principal  cities,  confirming  a  reputation  already 
acquired  as  the  greatest  British  actress  of  the 
age.  In  1.834  she  retired  from  the  stage  and 
was  married  to  Mr.  PIERCE  BUTLER  of  Phila- 
ielphia. 

Mrs.  BUTLER  is  among  the  few  of  her  pro- 
fession who  have  been  eminent  in  the  world 
of  letters.  Her  dramas,  Francis  the  First  and 
the  Star  of  Seville,  were  written  when  she 
was  very  young,  and  do  not  retain  possession 
of  the  stage,  though  superior  to  many  pieces 


which  in  this  respect  have  been  more  fortu- 
nate. The  volume  of  her  shorter  poems  pub- 
lished in  Philadelphia  in  1844  entitles  her  to 
be  ranked  with  the  first  class  of  living  Eng- 
lish poetesses.  Their  general  tone  is  melan- 
choly and  desponding;  but  they  are  vigorous 
in  thought  and  execution,  and  free  from  the 
sickly  sentiment  and  puerile  expression  for 
which  so  much  of  the  verse  of  the  day  is 
chiefly  distinguished.  She  has  written  besides 
the  works  before  mentioned  A  Journal,  which 
was  published  on  her  return  from  this  country 
to  London.  It  is  a  clever,  gossipping  book, 
with  such  absurdities  of  opinion  as  might  have 
been  expected  from  a  commentator  on  national 
character  of  her  age  and  position  :  very  amus- 
ing and  very  harmless. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  A  LONELY  HEART. 

I  AM  alone^Oh  be  thou  near  to  me, 
Great  God !  from  whom  the  meanest  are  not  far. 
Not  in  presumption  of  the  daring  spirit, 
Striving  to  find  the  secrets  of  itself, 
Make  I  my  weeping  prayer;  in  the  deep  want 
Of  utter  loneliness,  my  God  !  I  seek  thee ; 
If  the  worm  may  creep  up  to  thy  fellowship, 
Or  dust,  instinct  with  yearning,  rise  towards  thee. 
I  have  no  fellow,  Father  i   of  my  kind  ; 
None  that  be  kindred,  none  companion  to  me, 
And  the  vast  love,  and  harmony,  and  brotherhood, 
Of  the  dumb  creatures  thou  hast  made  beiow  me, 
Vexes  my  soul  with  its  own  bitter  lot. 
Around  me  grow  the  trees,  each  by  the  other; 
Innumerable  leaves,  each  like  the  other, 
Whisper  and  breathe,  and  live  arid  move  together. 
Around  me  spring  the  flowers;  each  rosy  cup 
Hath  sisters  leaning  their  fair  cheeks  against  it. 
The  birds  fly  all  above  me ;  not  alone, 
But  coupled  in  free  fellowship,  or  mustering 
A  joyous  band,  sweeping  in  companies 
The  wide  blue  fields  between  the  clouds ; — the  clouds 
Troop  in  society,  each  on  the  other 
Shedding,  like  sympathy,  reflected  light. 
The  waves,  a  multitude,  together  run 
To  the  great  breast  of  the  receiving  sea : 
Nothing  but  hath  its  kind,  its  company, 
O  God  !  save  I  alone  ! — then,  let  me  come, 
Good  Father!   to  thy  feet;  when,  even  as  now, 
Tears,  that  no  human  hand  is  ne»r  to  wipe, 
O'erbrim  my  eyes,  oh  wipe  them,  thou,  my  Father! 
"When  in  my  heart  the  stores  of  its  affections, 
Piled  up  unused,  lock'd  fast,  are  like  to  burst 


The  fleshly  casket,  that  may  not  contain  them, 
Let  me  come  nigh  to  thee ; — accept  them  thou, 
Dear  Father ! — Fount  of  love !  C  ompassionate  God ! 
When  in  my  spirit  burns  the  fire,  the  power 
That  have  made  men  utter  the  words  of  angels, 
And  none  are  near  to  bid  me  speak  and  live : 
Hearken,  O  Father  !  Maker  of  my  spirit ! 
God  of  my  soul,  to  thee  I  will  outpour 
The  hymns  resounding  through  my  troubled  mind, 
The  sighs  and  sorrows  of  my  lonely  heart, 
The  tears  and  weeping  of  my  weary  eyes  : 
Be  thou  my  fellow,  glorious,  gracious  God ! 
And  fit  me  for  such  fellowship  with  thee  ! 

ON  A  FORGET-ME-NOT, 

BROUGHT  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 

FLOWER  of  the  mountain  !  by  the  wanderer's  hand 
Robb'd  of  thy  beauty's  short-lived  sunny  day; 
Didst  tbou  but  blow  to  gem  the  stranger's  way, 
And  bloom  to  wither  in  the  stranger's  land! 
Hueless  and  scentless  as  thou  art, 

How  much  that  stirs  the  memory, 
How  much,  much  more,  that  thrills  the  heart, 

Thou  faded  thing,  yet  lives  in  thee  ! 
Where  is  thy  beauty '?   in  the  grassy  blade    [now; 
There  lives  more  fragrance  and  more  freshness 
Yet  oh  !  not  all  the  flowers  that  bloom  and  fade 
Are  half  so  dear  to  memory's  eye  as  thou. 
The  dew  that  on  the  mountain  lies, 
The  breeze  that  o'er  the  mountain  sighs, 

Thy  parent  stem  will  nurse  and  nourish ; 
But  thou — not  e'en  those  sunny  eyes, 
As  bright,  as  blue  as  thine  own  skies, 

Thou  faded  thing !  can  make  thee  flourish. 
2R  469 


470 


FRANCES    KEMBLE    BUTLER. 


ON  A  MUSICAL  BOX. 

POOR  little  sprite !  in  that  dark,  narrow  cell 

Caged  by  the  law  of  man's  resistless  might ! 
With  thy  sweet,  liquid  notes,  by  some  strong  spell, 

CompelPd  to  minister  to  his  delight, 
Whence,  what  art  thou?  art  thou  a  fairy  wight 

Caught  sleeping  in  some  lily's  snowy  bell, 
Where  thou  hadst  crept,  to  rock  in  the  moonlight, 

And  drink  the  starry  dew-drops  as  they  fell  ] 
Say,  dost  thou  think,  sometimes  when   thou   art 
singing, 

Of  thy  wild  haunt  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
Where  thou  wert  wont  to  list  the  heath-bells  ringing, 

And  sail  upon  the  sunset's  amber  glow  1 
When  thou  art  weary  of  thy  oft-told  theme, 
Say,  -dost  thou  think  of  the  clear  pebbly  stream, 

Upon  whose  mossy  brink  thy  fellows  play, 
Dancing  in  circles  by  the  moon's  soft  beam, 
Hiding  in  blossoms  from  the  sun's  fierce  gleam, 

Whilst  thou  in  darkness  sing'st  thy  life  away. 
And  canst  thou  feel  when  the  spring-time  returns, 

Filling  the  earth  with  fragrance  arid  with  glee  ; 
When  in  the  wide  creation  nothing  mourns, 

Of  all  that  lives,  save  that  which  is  not  free  ? 
Oh  !  if  thou  couldst,  and  we  could  hear  thy  prayer, 

How  would  thy  little  voice  beseeching  cry, 
For  one  short  draught  of  the  sweet  morning  air, 

For  one  short  glimpse  of  the  clear,  azure  sky  ! 
Perchance  thou  sing'st  in  hopes  thou  shalt  be  free, 

Sweetly  and  patiently  thy  task  fulfilling ; 
While  thy  sad  thoughts  are  wandering  with  the  bee, 

To  every  bud  with  honey-dew  distilling. 
That  hope  is  vain :  for  even  couldst  thou  wing1 

Thy  homeward  flight  back  to  the  greenwood  gay, 
Thou'st  be  a  shunn'd  and  a  forsaken  thing, 

'Mongst  the  companions  of  thy  happier  day. 
For  fairy  sprites,  like  many  other  creatures, 

Bear  fleeting  memories,  that  come  and  go ; 
Nor  can  they  oft  recall  familiar  features, 

By  absence  touch'd,  or  clouded  o'er  with  wo. 
Then  rest  content  with  sorrow :  for  there  be 
Many  that  must  that  lesson  learn  with  thee  ; 
And  still  thy  wild  notes  warble  cheerfully, 
Till,  when  thy  tiny  voice  begins  to  fail, 
For  thy  lost  bliss  sing  but  one  parting  wail, 
Poor  little  sprite  !  and  then  sleep  peacefully ! 


A  WISH. 

OH  !  that  I  were  a  fairy  sprite  to  wander 
In  forest  paths,  o'erarch'd  with  oak  and  beech ; 
Where  the  sun's  yellow  light,  in  slanting  rays, 
Sleeps  on  the  dewy  moss  ;  what  time  the  breath 
Of  early  morn  stirs  the  white  hawthorn  boughs, 
And  fills  the  air  with  showers  of  snowy  blossoms. 
Or  lie  at  sunset  mid  the  purple  heather, 
Listening  the  silver  music  that  rings  out 
From  the  pale  mountain  bells,  sway'd  by  the  wind. 
Or  sit  in  rocky  clefts  above  the  sea, 
While  one  by  one  the  evening  stars  shine  forth 
Among  the  gathering  clouds,  that  strew  the  heavens 
Like  floating  purple  wreaths  of  mournful  night- 
shade ! 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  LONDON. 

STRUGGLE  not  with  thy  life  ! — the  heavy  doom 
Resist  not,  it  will  bow  thee  like  a  slave: 

Strive  not !  thou  shalt  riot  conquer ;  to  thy  tomb 
Thou  shalt  go  crush'd  and  ground,  though  ne'er 
so  brave. 

Complain  not  of  thy  life  ! — for  what  art  thou 
More  than  thy  fellows,  that  thou  should'st  not 
weep] 

Brave  thoughts  still  lodge  beneath  a  furrow'd  brow, 
And  the  way-wearied  have  the  sweetest  sleep. 

Marvel  not  at  thy  life  ! — patience  shall  see 
The  perfect  work  of  wisdom  to  her  given  ; 

Hold  fast  thy  soul  through  this  high  mystery, 
And  it  shall  lead  thee  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


FRAGMENT. 

WALKING  by  moonlight  on  the  golden  margin 
That  binds  the  silver  sea,  I  fell  to  thinking 
Of  all  the  wild  imaginings  that  man 
Hath  peopled  heaven,  and  earth,  and  ocean  with ; 
Making  fair  nature's  solitary  haunts 
Alive  with  beings,  beautiful  and  fearful. 
And  as  the  chain  of  thought  grew,  link  by  link, 
It  seem'd  as  though  the  midnight  heavens  wax'd 

brighter, 

The  stars  gazed  fix'dly  with  their  golden  eyes, 
And  a  strange  light  play'd  o'er  each  sleeping  billow, 
That  laid  its  head  upon  the  sandy  beach. 
Anon  there  came  along  the  rocky  shore 
A  far-off  sound  of  sweetest  minstrelsy. 
From  no  one  point  of  heaven  or  earth  it  came ; 
But  under,  over,  and  about  it  breathed; 
Filling  my  soul  with  thrilling,  fearful  pleasure. 
It  swell'd,  as  though  borne  on  the  floating  wings 
Of  the  midsummer  breeze  ;  it  died  away 
Towards  heaven,  as  though  it  sank  into  the  clouds, 
That  one  by  one  melted  like  flakes  of  snow 
In  the  moonbeams.    Then  came  a  rushing  sound, 
Like  countless  wings  of  bees,  or  butterflies ; 
And  suddenly,  as  far  as  eye  might  view, 
The  coast  was  peopled  with  a  world  of  elves, 
Who  in  fantastic  ringlets  danced  around, 
With  antic  gestures,  and  wild  beckoning  motion, 
Aimed  at  the  moon.  White  was  their  snowy  vesture, 
And  shining  as  the  Alps,  when  that  the  sun 
Gems  their  pale  robes  with  diamonds.     On  their 

heads 

Were  wreaths  of  crimson  and  of  yellow  foxglove. 
They  were  all  fair,  and  light  as  dreams.    Anon 
The  dance  broke  off;  and  sailing  through  the  air, 
Some  one  way,  and  some  other,  they  did  each 
Alight  upon  some  waving  branch  or  flower 
That  garlanded  the  rocks  upon  the  shore. 
One,  chiefly  did  I  mark ;  one  tiny  sprite, 
Who  crept  into  an  orange  flower-bell, 
And  there  lay  nestling,  whilst  his  eager  lips 
Drank  from  its  virgin  chalice  the  night  dew, 
That  glisten'd,  like  a  pearl,  in  its  white  bosom. 


FRANCES  KEMBLE  BUTLER. 


471 


THE  VISION  OF  LIFE. 

DEATH  and  I 

On  a  hill  so  high 
Stood  side  by  side, 

And  we  saw  below, 

Running  to  and  fro, 
All  things  that  be  in  the  world  so  wide. 

Ten  thousand  cries 

From  the  gulf  did  rise, 
With  a  wild,  discordant  sound ; 

Laughter  and  wailing, 

Prayer  and  railing, 
As  the  ball  spun  round  and  round. 

And  over  all 

Hung  a  floating  pall 
Of  dark  and  gory  veils  : 

'Tis  the  blood  of  years, 

And  the  sighs  and  tears 
Which  this  noisome  marsh  exhales. 

All  this  did  seem 

Like  a  fearful  dream, 
Till  Death  cried,  with  a  joyful  cry : 

"  Look  down  !  look  down  ! 

It  is  all  mine  own, 
Here  comes  life's  pageant  by  !" 

Like  to  a  masque  in  ancient  revelries, 
With  mingling  sound  of  thousand  harmonies, 
Soft  lute  and  viol,  trumpet-blast  and  gong, 
They  came  along,  and  still  they  came  along! 
Thousands,  and  tens  of  thousands,  all  that  e'er 

Peopled  the  earth  or  plough'd  the  unfathom'd  deep, 
All  that  now  breathe  the  universal  air, 

And  all  that  in  the  womb  of  time  yet  sleep. 

Before  this  mighty  host  a  woman  came, 

With  hurried  feet  and  oft-averted  head  ; 
With  accursed  light 
Her  eyes  were  bright, 

And  with  inviting  hand  them  on  she  beckoned. 
Her  follow'd  close,  with  wild  acclaim, 
Her  servants  three  :  Lust,  with  his  eye  of  fire, 
And  burning  lips,  that  tremble  with  desire, 

Pale,  sunken  cheek; — and,  as  he  stagger'd  by, 
The  trumpet-blast  was  hush'd,  and  there  arose 

A  melting  strain  of  such  soft  melody 
As  breathed  into  the  soul  love's  ecstasies  and  woes. 

Loudly  again  the  trumpet  smote  the  air, 
The  double  drum  did  roll,  and  to  the  sky 
Bay'd  war's  blood-hounds,  the  deep  artillery; 
And  Glory, 
With  feet  all  gory, 
And  dazzling  eyes,  rush'd  by, 
Waving  a  flashing  sword  and  laurel  wreath, 
The  pang  and  the  inheritance  of  death. 

He  pass'd  like  lightning — then  ceased  every  sound 
Of  war  triumphant,  and  of  love's  sweet  song, 
And  all  was  silent. — Creeping  slow  along, 
With  eager  eyes  that  wander' d  round  and  round, 
Wild,  haggard  mien,  and  meager,  wasted  frame, 
Bow'd  to  the  earth,  pale,  starting  Avarice  came  : 


Clutching  with  palsied  hands  his  golden  god, 
And  tottering  in  the  path  the  others  trod. 
These,  one  by  one, 
Came,  and  were  gone : 

And  after  them  follow'd  the  ceaseless  stream 
Of  worshippers,  who  with  mad  shout  and  scream, 
Unhallow'd  toil,  and  more  unhallow'd  mirth, 
Follow  their  mistress,  Pleasure,  through  the  earth. 
Death's  eyeless  sockets  glared  upon  them  all, 
And  many  in  the  train  were  seen  to  fall, 
Livid  and  cold,  beneath  his  empty  gaze : 

But  not  for  this  was  stay'd  the  mighty  throng, 
Nor  ceased  the  warlike  clang,  or  wanton  lays, 

But  still  they  rush'd — along — along — along! 


A  PROMISE. 

Br  the  pure  spring,  whose  haunted  waters  flow 

Through  thy  sequester'd  dell  unto  the  sea, 

At  sunny  noon,  I  will  appear  to  thee : 
Not  troubling  the  still  fount  with  drops  of  wo, 

As  when  I  last  took  leave  of  it  and  thee, 
But  gazing  up  at  thee  with  tranquil  brow, 
And  eyes  full  of  life's  early  happiness, 
Of  strength,  of  hope,  of  joy,  and  tenderness. 
Beneath  the  shadowy  tree,  where  thou  and  I 

Were  wont  to  sit,  studying  the  harmony 
Of  gentle  Shakspeare,  and  of  Milton  high, 

At  sunny  noon  I  will  be  heard  by  thee ; 
Not  sobbing  forth  each  oft-repeated  sound, 

As  when  I  last  falter'd  them  o'er  to  thee, 
But  uttering  them  in  the  air  around, 

With  youth's  clear,  laughing  voice  of  melody. 
On  the  wild  shore  of  the  eternal  deep, 

Where  we  have  stray'd  so  oft,  and  stood  so  long 
Watching  the  mighty  water's  conquering  sweep, 

And  listening  to  their  loud,  triumphant  song, 
At  sunny  noon,  dearest!  I'll  be  with  thee; 

Not  as  when  last  I  linger'd  on  the  strand, 

Tracing  our  names  on  the  inconstant  sand; 
But  in  each  bright  thing  that  around  shall  be: 
My  voice  shall  call  thee  from  the  ocean's  breast, 
Thou'lt  see  my  hair  in  its  bright  showery  crest, 
In  its  dark  rocky  depths  thou'lt  see  my  eyes, 
My  form  shall  be  the  light  cloud  in  the  skies, 
My  spirit  shall  be  with  thee,  warm  and  bright, 
And  flood  thee  o'er  with  love,  and  life,  and  light. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

How  passing  sad  !     Listen,  it  sings  again  ! 

Art  thou  a  spirit,  that  amongst  the  boughs 
The  livelong  day  dost  chant  that  wondrous  strain, 

Making  wan  Dian  stoop  her  silver  brows 
Out  of  the  clouds  to  hear  thee  1      Who  shall  say, 
Thou  lone  one !  that  thy  melody  is  gay, 
Let  him  come  listen  now  to  that  one  note 

That  thou  art  pouring  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Through  the  sweet  echoes  of  thy  mellow  throat, 

With  such  a  sobbing  sound  of  deep,  deep  pain. 
I  prithee  cease  thy  song !  for  from  my  heart 
Thou  hast  made  memory's  bitter  waters  start, 

And  fill'd  my  weary  eyes  with  the  soul's  rain. 


472 


FRANCES    KEMBLE    BUTLER. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  LEAVING  WEST 
POINT. 

THE  hours  are  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love  ! 
Those  happy  hours,  when  down  the  mountain-side 
We  saw  the  rosy  mists  of  morning  glide, 
And,  hand  in  hand,  went  forth  upon  our  way, 
Full  of  young  life  and  hope,  to  meet  the  day. 

The  hours  are  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love ! 
Those  sunny  hours,  when  from  the  midday  heat 
We  sought  the  waterfall  with  loitering  feet, 
And  o'er  the  rocks  that  lock  the  gleaming  pool, 
Crept  down  into  its  depths,  so  dark  and  cool. 

The  hours  aYe  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love ! 
Those  solemn  hours,  when  through  the  violet  sky, 

Alike  without  a  cloud,  without  a  ray, 
The  round  red  autumn  moon  came  glowingly, 
While  o'er  the  leaden  waves  our  boat  made  way. 

The  hours  are  past,  love, 
Oh,  fled  they  not  too  fast,  love ! 
Those  blessed  hours  when  the  bright  day  was  past, 

And  in  the  world  we  seem'd  to  wake  alone, 

When  heart  to  heart  beat  throbbingly  and  fast, 

And  love  was  melting  our  two  souls  in  one. 


TO  A  PICTURE. 

O  ST.RIOUS  eyest  how  is  it  that  the  light, 

The  burning  rays,  that  mine  pour  into  ye, 
Still  find  ye  cold,  and  dead,  and  dark  as  night — 

O  lifeless  eyes !  can  ye  not  answer  me  1 
O  lips !  whereon  mine  own  so  often  dwell, 
Hath  love's  warm,  fearful,  thrilling  touch  no  spell 
To  waken  sense  in  ye  ? — 0  misery  ! — 

0  breathless  lips  !  can  ye  not  speak  to  me  ? 
Thou  soulless  mimicry  of  life ;  my  tears 

Fall  scalding  over  thee  ;  in  vain,  in  vain  ; 

1  press  thee  to  my  heart,  whose  hopes  and  fears 

Are  all  thine  own ;  thou  dost  not  feel  the  strain. 
O  thou  dull  image !   wilt  thou  not  reply 
To  my  fond  prayers  and  wild  idolatry  ? 


SONNET. 

THERE'S  not  a  fibre  in  my  trembling  frame 

That  does  not  vibrate  when  thy  step  draws  near, 
There's  not  a  pulse  that  throbs  not  when  I  hear 

Thy  voice,  thy  breathing,  nay,  thy  very  name. 

When  thou  art  with  me  every  sense  seems  dull, 
And  all  I  am,  or  know,  or  feel,  is  thee ; 

My  soul  grows  faint,  my  veins  run  liquid  flame, 

And  my  bewilder'd  spirit  seems  to  swim 
In  eddying  whirls  of  passion,  dizzily. 

When  thou  art  gone  there  creeps  into  my  heart 
A  cold  and  bitter  consciousness  of  pain : 

The  light,  the  warmth  of  life,  with  thee  depart, 
And  I  sit  dreaming  o'er  and  o'er  again 

Thy  greeting  clasp,  thy  parting  look  arid  tone ; 

And  suddenly  I  wake — and  am  alone. 


AMBITION. 

THOU  poisonous  laurel  leaf,  that  in  the  soil 

Of  life,  which  I  am  doom'd  to  till  full  sore, 
Spring'st  like  a  noisome  weed  !  I  do  not  toil 

For  thee,  and  yet  thou  still  com'st  darkening  o'er 

My  plot  of  earth  with  thy  unwelcome  shade. 

Thou  nightshade  of  the  soul,  beneath  whose  boughs 

All  fair  and  gentle  buds  hang  withering, 
Why  hast  thou  wreath'd  thyself  around  my  brows, 

Casting  from  thence  the  blossoms  of  my  spring, 
Breathing  on  youth's  sweet  roses  till  they  fade? 
Alas  !  thou  art  an  evil  weed  of  wo, 

Water'd  with  tears  an  d  watch'd  with  sleeplesscare ; 

Seldom  doth  envy  thy- green  glories  spare; 
And  yet  men  covet  thee — ah,  wherefore  do  they  so! 


TO  . 

On  !  turn  those  eyes  away  from  me  ! 

Though  sweet,  yet  fearful  are  their  rays ; 
And  though  they  beam  so  tenderly, 

I  feel,  I  tremble  'neath  their  gaze. 
Oh,  turn  those  eyes  away  !  for  though 

To  meet  their  glance  I  may  not  dare, 
I  know  their  light  is  on  my  brow 

By  the  warm  blood  that  mantles  there. 


VENICE. 

NIGHT  in  her  dark  array 

Steals  o'er  the  ocean, 
And  with  departed  day 

Hush'd  seems  its  motioi 
Slowly  o'er  yon  blue  coast 

Onward  she's  treading, 
Till  its  dark  line  is  lost, 

'Neath  her  veil  spreading. 
The  bark  on  the  rippling  deep 

Hath  found  a  pillow, 
And  the  pale  moonbeams  sleep 

On  the  green  billow. 
Bound  by  her  emerald  zone 

Venice  is  lying, 
And  round  her  marble  crown 

Night  winds  are  sighing. 
From  the  high  lattice  now 

Bright  eyes  are  gleaming, 
That  seem  on  night's  dark  brow, 

Brighter  stars  beaming. 
Now  o'er  the  blue  lagurie 

Light  barks  are  dancing, 
And  'neath  the  silver  moon 

Swift  oars  are  glancing. 
Strains  from  the  mandolin 

Steal  o'er  the  water, 
Echo  replies  between 

To  mirth  and  laughter. 
O'er  the  wave  seen  afar, 

Brilliantly  shining, 
Gleams  like  a  fallen  star 

Venice  reclining. 


RICHARD  MONO  ETON  MILNE  S. 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES  is  a  native  of 
Yorkshire,  and  was  born  about  the  year  1806. 
On  the  completion  of  his  education  at  Cam- 
bridge he  travelled  a  considerable  time  on  the 
Continent,  and  soon  after  his  return  iiome  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
for  Pontefract.  He  has  voted  in  Parliament 
with  the  Tories,  but  has  won  little  distinction 
as  a  politician. 

The  poetical  works  of  Mr.  MILNES  are  Me- 
morials of  a  Tour  in  Greece,  published  in 
1834,  Poems  of  Many  Years,  in  1838,  Poetry 
for  the  People,  in  1840,  and  Palm  Leaves,  in 
1844.  The  last  volume  was  written  during 
a  tour  through  Egypt  and  the  Levant  in  1842 
and  1843,  and  is  an  attempt  to  instruct  the 
western  world  in  oriental  modes  of  thought 
and  feeling,  by  a  series  of  poems  in  the  orien- 
tal spirit, — not  an  unsuccessful  effort,  but  one 
with  precedents,  both  in  England  and  on  the 
Continent.  A  complete  edition  of  his  writings, 
in  four  volumes,  has  recently  been  published 
in  London  by  Mr.  Moxon.  I  believe  none  of 
them  have  been  reprinted  in  this  country. 


In  Leucas,  one  of  his  earlier  productions, 
Mr.  MILNES  discloses  his  poetical  theory. 
Reproaching  SAPPHO,  he  says, — 

"Poesy,  which  in  chaste  repose  abides, 
As  in  its  atmosphere;  that  placid  flower 
Thou  hast  exposed  to  passion's  fiery  tides." 

With  him  poetry  is  the  expression  of  beauty, 
not  of  passion,  and  no  one  more  fully  realizes 
his  own  ideal  in  his  works,  which  are  serene 
and  contemplative,  and  pervaded  by  a  true 
and  genial  philosophy.  They  are  unequal, 
but  there  is  about  them  that  indescribable 
charm  which  indicates  genuineness  of  feeling. 
This  is  particularly  observable  in  the  pieces 
having  reference  to  the  affections.  The  sim- 
plicity of  the  incidents  portrayed,  and  the 
seeming  artlessness  of  the  diction,  sometimes 
remind  us  of  WORDSWORTH,  but  there  is  a 
point  and  meaning  in  his  effusions  which 
makes  him  occasionally  superior  to  the  author 
of  the  Excursion  in  pathos,  however  much  he 
may  at  times  fall  below  him  in  philosophical 
sentiment.  Probably  no  one  among  the  younger 
poets  of  England  has  founded  a  more  enduring 
or  more  enviable  reputation. 


LONELY  MATURITY. 

WHEN  from  the  key-stone  of  the  arch  of  life 
Man  his  ascent  with  earnest  eyes  surveys, 

Sums  and  divides  the  steps  of  peace  and  strife, 
And  numbers  o'er  his  good  and  evil  days, — 

If  then,  as  well  may  be,  he  stand  alone, 

How  will  his  heart  recall  the  youthful  throng, 

Who  leap'd  with  helping  hands  from  stone  to  stone, 
And  cheer'd  the  progress  with  their  choral  song ! 

How  will  sad  memory  point  where,  here  and  there, 
Friend  after  friend,  by  falsehood  or  by  fate, 

From  him  or  from  each  other  parted  were, 

And  love  sometimes  become  the  nurse  of  hate. 

Yet  at  this  hour  no  feelings  dark  or  fierce, 
No  harsh  desire  to  punish  or  condemn, 

Through  the  grave  silence  of  the  past  can  pierce, — 
Reproach,  if  such  there  be,  is  not  for  them. 

Rather,  he  thinks,  he  held  not  duly  dear 

Love,  the  best  gift  that  man  on  man  bestows, 

While  round  his  downward  path,  recluse  and  drear, 
He  feels  the  chill,  indifferent  shadows  close. 

Old  limbs,  once  broken,  hardly  knit  together, — 
Seldom  old  hearts  with  other  hearts  combine; 

Suspicion  coarsely  weighs  the  fancy's  frather ; 
Experience  tests  and  mars  the  sense  divine; 
60 


Thus  now,  though  ever  loth  to  underprize 
Youth's  sacred  passions  and  delicious  tears, 

Still  worthier  seems  to  his  reflective  eyes 
The  friendship  that  sustains  maturer  years. 

"  Why  did  I  not,"  his  spirit  murmurs  deep, 
"  At  every  cost  of  momentary  pride, 

Preserve  the  love  for  which  in  vain  I  weep ; 
Why  had  I  wish,  or  hope,  or  sense  beside  ? 

"Oh  cruel  issue  of  some  selfish  thought! 

Oh  long,  long  echo  of  some  angry  tone ! 
Oh  fruitless  lesson,  mercilessly  taught, 

Alone  to  linger  and  to  die  alone ! 

"  No  one  again  upon  my  breast  to  fall, 

To  name  me  by  my  common  Christian  name, — 

No  one  in  mutual  banter  to  recall 

Some  youthful  folly  or  some  boyish  game ; 

"  No  one  with  whom  to  reckon  and  compare 
The  good  we  won  or  miss'd ;  no  one  to  draw 

Excuses  from  past  circumstance  or  care, 
And  mitigate  the  world's  unreasoning  law ! 

"Were  I  one  moment  with  that  presence  blest, 
I  would  o'erwhelm  him  with  my  humble  pain, 

I  would  invade  the  soul  I  once  possest, 
And  once  for  all  my  ancient  love  regain !" 
2B2  473 


474 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  HUMBLE. 

I  HAVE  no  comeliness  of  frame, 

No  pleasant  range  of  feature  ; 
I'm  feeble,  as  when  first  I  came 

To  earth,  a  weeping  creature ; 
My  voice  is  low  whene'er  I  speak, 

And  singing  faint  my  song; 
But  though  thus  cast  among  the  weak, 

I  envy  not  the  strong. 

The  trivial  part  in  life  I  play 

Can  have  so  light  a  bearing 
On  other  men,  who;  night  or  day, 

For  me  are  never  caring; 
That,  though  I  find  not  much  to  bless, 

Nor  food  for  exaltation, 
I  know  that  I  am  tempted  less, — 

And  that  is  consolation. 

The  beautiful !  the  noble  blood  ! 

I  shrink  as  they  pass  by, — 
Such  power  for  evil  or  for  good 

Is  flashing  from  each  eye  ; 
They  are  indeed  the  stewards  of  Heaven, 

High-headed  and  strong-handed : 
From  those,  to  whom  so  much  is  given, 

How  much  may  be  demanded  ! 

'Tis  true,  I  am  hard  buffetted, 

Though  few  can  be  my  foes, 
Harsh  words  fall  heavy  on  my  head, 

And  unresisted  blows ; 
But  then  I  think,  "had  I  been  born, — 

Hot  spirit — sturdy  frame — 
And  passion  prompt  to  follow  scorn, — 

I  might  have  done  the  same." 

To  me  men  are  for  what  they  are, 

They  wear  no  masks  with  me ; 
I  never  sicken'd  at  the  jar 

Of  ill-tuned  flattery  ; 
I  never  mourn'd  affections  lent 

In  folly  or  in  blindness ; — 
The  kindness  that  on  me  is  spent 

Is  pure,  unasking  kindness. 

And  most  of  all,  I  never  felt 

The  agonizing  sense 
Of  seeing  love  from  passion  melt 
*    Into  indifference ; 
The  fearful  shame,  that  day  by  day 

Burns  onward,  still  to  burn, 
To  have  thrown  your  precious  heart  away, 

And  met  this  black  return. 

I  almost  fancy  that  the  more 

I  am  cast  out  from  men, 
Nature  has  made  me  of  her  store 

A  worthier  denizen; 
As  if  it  pleased  her  to  caress 

A  plant  grown  up  so  wild, 
As  if  the  being  parentless 

Made  me  the  more  her  child. 

Athwart  my  face  when  blushes  pass 

To  be  so  poor  and  weak, 
I  fall  into  the  dewy  grass, 

And  cool  my  fever'd  cheek  ; 


And  hear  a  music  strangely  made, 

That  you  have  never  heard, 
A  sprite  in  every  rustling  blade, 

That  sings  like  any  bird. 

My  dreams  are  dreams  of  pleasantness, — 

But  yet  I  always  run, 
As  to  a  father's  morning  kiss, 

When  rises  the  round  sun ; 
I  see  the  flowers  on  stalk  and  stem, 

Light  shrubs,  and  poplars  tall, 
Enjoy  the  breeze, — I  rock  with  them, — 

We're  merry  brothers  all. 

I  do  remember  well,  when  first 

I  saw  the  great  blue  sea, — 
It  was  no  stranger-face,  that  burst 

In  terror  upon  me  ; 
My  heart  began,  from  the  first  glance, 

His  solemn  pulse  to  follow  ; 
I  danced  with  every  billow's  dance, 

And  shouted  to  their  hollo. 

The  lamb  that  at  it's  mother's  side 

Reclines,  a  tremulous  thing, 
The  robin  in  cold  winter-tide, 

The  linnet  in  the  spring, 
All  seem  to  be  of  kin  to  me, 

And  love  my  slender  hand, — 
For  we  are  bound,  by  God's  decree, 

In  one  defensive  band. 

And  children,  who  the  worldly  mind 

And  ways  have  not  put  on, 
Are  ever  glad  in  me  to  find 

A  blithe  companion: 
And  when  for  play  they  leave  their  homes, 

Left  to  their  own  sweet  glee, 
They  hear  my  step,  and  cry,  "He  comes, 

Our  little  friend, — 'tis  he." 

Have  you  been  out  some  starry  night, 

And  found  it  joy  to  bend 
Your  eyes  to  one  particular  light, 

Till  it  became  a  friend] 
And  then,  so  loved  that  glistening  spot, 

That,  whether  it  were  far 
Or  more  or  less,  it  matter'd  not, — 

It  still  was  your  own  star. 

Thus,  and  thus  only,  can  you  know, 

How  I,  even  scorned  I, 
Can  live  in  love,  though  set  so  low, 

And  my  ladie-Iove  so  high; 
Thus  learn,  that  on  this  varied  ball, 

What.e'er  can  breathe  and  move, 
The  meanest,  lornest  thing  of  all — 

Still  owns  its  right  to  love. 

With  no  fair  round  of  household  cares 

Will  my  lone  heart  be  blest, 
Never  the  snow  of  my  old  hairs 

Will  touch  a  loving  breast ; 
No  darling  pledge  of  spousal  faith 

Shall  I  be  found  possessing, 
To  whom  a  blessing  with  my  breath 

Would  be  a  double  blessing: 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


475 


But  yet  my  love  with  sweets  is  rife, 

With  happiness  it  teems, 
It  beautifies  my  waking  life, 

And  waits  upon  my  dreams ; 
A  shape  that  floats  upon  the  night, 

Like  foam  upon  the  sea, — 
A  voice  of  seraphim, — a  light 

Of  present  Deity  ! 

I  hide,  me  in  the  dark  arcade, 

When  she  walks  forth  alone, — 
I  feast  upon  her  hair's  rich  braid, — 

Her  half-unclasped  zone : 
I  watch  the  flittings  of  her  dress, 

The  bending  boughs  between, — 
I  trace  her  footsteps'  faery  press, 

On  the  scarcely  ruffled  green. 

Oh  deep  delight !  the  frail  guitar 

Trembles  beneath  her  hand, 
She  sings  a  song  she  brought  from  far, 

I  cannot  understand  ; 
Her  voice  is  always  as  from  heaven, 

But  yet  I  seem  to  hear 
Its  music  best,  when  thus  'tis  given 

All  music  to  my  ear. 

She  has  turn'd  her  tender  eyes  around, 

And  seen  me  crouching  there. 
And  smiles,  just  as  that  last  full  sound 

Is  fainting  on  the  air ; 
And  now,  I  can  go  forth  so  proud, 

And  raise  my  head  so  tall, — 
My  heart  within  me  beats  so  loud, 

And  musical  withal : — 

And  there  is  summer  all  the  while, 

Mid-winter  though  it  be, — 
How  should  the  universe  not  smile, 

When  she  has  smiled  on  me! 
For  though  that  smile  can  nothing  more 

Than  merest  pity  prove, 
Yet  pity,  it  was  sung  of  yore, 

Is  not  so  far  from  love. 

From  what  a  crowd  of  lovers'  woes 

My  weakness  is  exempt ! 
How  far  more  fortunate  than  those 

Who  mark  me  for  contempt ! 
No  fear  of  rival  happiness 

My  fervent  glory  smothers, 
The  zephyr  fans  me  none  the  less 

That  is  so  bland  to  others. 

Thus  without  share  in  coin  or  land, 

But  well  content  to  hold 
The  wealth  of  nature  in  my  hand, 

One  flail  of  virgin  gold, — 
My  love  above  me  like  a  sun, — 

My  own  bright  thoughts  my  wings, — 
Through  life  I  trust  to  flutter  on, 

As  gay  as  aught  that  sings. 

One  hour  I  own  I  dread. — to  die 

Alone  and  unbefriended, — 
No  soothing  voice,  no  tearful  eye, — 

But  that  must  soon  be  ended  ; 


And  then  I  shall  receive  my  part 

Of  everlasting  treasure, 
In  that,  just  world  where  each  man's  heart 

Will  be  his  only  measure. 


ON . 

GENTLY  supported  by  the  ready  aid 

Of  loving  hands,  whose  little  work  of  toil 
Her  grateful  prodigality  repaid 

With  all  the  benediction  of  her  smile, 
She  turn'd  her  failing  feet 
To  the  soft  pillow'd  seat, 
Dispensing  kindly  greetings  all  the  while. 

Before  the  tranquil  beauty  of  her  face 

I  bow'd  in  spirit,  thinking  that  she  were 
A  suffering  angel,  whom  the  special  grace 
Of  God  intrusted  to  our  pious  care, 
That  we  might  learn  from  her 
The  art  to  minister 
To  heavenly  beings  in  seraphic  air. 

There  seem'd  to  lie  a  weight  upon  her  brain, 

That  ever  press'd  her  blue-vein'd  eyelids  down, 
But  could  not  dim  her  lustrous  eyes  with  pain, 
Nor  seem  her  forehead  with  the  faintest  frown : 
She  was  as  she  were  proud, 
So  young,  to  be  allow'd 
To  follow  Him  who  wore  the  thorny  crown. 

Nor  was  she  sad,  but  over  every  mood, 

To  which  her  lightly-pliant  mind  gave  birth, 
Gracefully  changing,  did  a  spirit  brood, 
Of  quiet  gaiety,  and  serenest  mirth  ;  , 
And  thus  her  voice  did  flow, 
So  beautifully  low, 
A  stream  whose  music  was  no  thing  of  earth. 

Now  long  that  instrument  has  ceased  to  sound, 
Now  long  that  gracious  form  in  earth  has  lain 
Tended  by  nature  only,  and  unwound 

Are  all  those  mingled  threads  of  love  and  pain; 
So  let  me  weep  and  bend 
My  head,  and  wait  the  end, 
Knowing  that  God  creates  not  thus  in  vain. 


PRAYER. 

Is-  reverence  will  we  speak  of  those  that  woo 
The  ear  Divine  with  clear  and  ready  prayer ; 
And,  while  their  voices  cleave  the  Sabbath  air, 

Know  their  bright  thoughts  are  winging  heaven- 
ward too. 

Yet  many  a  one — "  the  latchet  of  whose  shoe" 
These  might  not  loose — will  often  only  dare 
Lay  some  poor  words  between  him  and  despair — 

"  Father,  forgive !  we  know  not  what  we  do." 
For,  as  Christ  pray'd,  so  echoes  our  weak  heart, 

Yearning  the  ways  of  God  to  vindicate, 

But  worn  and  wilder'd  by  the  shows  of  fate, 

Of  good  oppress'd  and  beautiful  defiled, 
Dim  alien  force,  that  draws  or  holds  apart 

From  its  dear  home  that  wandering  spirit-child. 


476 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


NOT  WHOLLY  JUST. 

THE  words  that  trembled  on  your  lips 

Were  utter'd  not — I  know  it  well ; 
The  tears  that  would  your  eyes  eclipse 

Were  check'd  and  smother'd  ere  they  fell: 
The  looks  and  smiles  I  gain'd  from  you 

Were  little  more  than  others  won, 
And  yet  you  are  not  wholly  true, 

Nor  wholly  just  what  you  have  done. 

You  know,  at  least  you  might  have  known, 

That  every  little  grace  you  gave, — 
Your  voice's  somewhat  lower'd  tone, — 

Your  hand's  faint  shake  or  parting  wave, — 
Your  every  sympathetic  look 

At  words  that  chanced  your  soul  to  touch, 
While  reading  from  some  favourite  book, 

Were  much  to  me — alas,  how  much ! 

You  might  have  seen — perhaps  you  saw — 

How  all  of  these  were  steps  of  hope 
On  which  I  rose,  in  joy  and  awe, 

Up  to  my  passion's  lofty  scope ; 
How  after  each,  a  firmer  tread 

I  planted  on  the  slippery  ground, 
And  higher  raised  my  venturous  heaJ, 

And  ever  new  assurance  found. 

May  be,  without  a  further  thought, 

It  only  pleased  you  thus  to  please, 
And  thus  to  kindly  feelings  wrought 

You  measured  not  the  sweet  degrees ; 
Yet,  though  you  hardly  understood 

Where  I  was  following  at  your  call, 
irou0  might — I  dare  to  say  you  should — 

Have  thought  how  far  I  had  to  fall. 

And  thus  when  fallen,  faint,  and  bruised, 

I  see  another's  glad  success, 
I  may  have  wrongfully  accused 

Your  heart  of  vulgar  fickleness: 
But  even  now,  in  calm  review 

Of  all  I  lost  and  all  I  won, 
I  cannot  deem  you  wholly  true, 

Nor  wholly  just  what  you  have  done. 


THE  PALSY  OF  THE  HEART. 

I  SEE  the  worlds  of  earth  and  sky 

With  beauty  filled  to  overflow ; 
My  spirit  lags  behind  the  eye — 

I  know,  but  feel  not  as  I  know: 
Those  miracles  of  form  and  hue 

I  can  dissect  with  artist  skill, 
But  more  than  this  I  cannot  do, — 

Enjoyment  rests  beyond  the  will. 

Round  me  in  rich  profusion  lie 

Nectareous  fruits  of  ancient  mind, 
The  thoughts  that  have  no  power  to  die 

In  golden  poesy  enshrined  : 
And  near  me  hang,  of  later  birth, 

Ripe  clusters  from  the  living  tree, 
But  what  the  pleasure,  what  the  worth 

If  all  is  savourless  to  me  1 


I  hear  the  subtle  chords  of  sound, 

Entangled,  loosed,  and  knit  anew; 
The  music  floats  without — around — 

But  will  not  enter  and  imbue: 
While  harmonies  diviner  still, 

Sweet  greetings,  appellations  dear, 
That  used  through  every  nerve  to  thrill, 

I  often  hear,  and  only  hear. 

O  dreadful  thought !  if  by  God's  grace 

To  souls  like  mine  there  should  be  given 
That  perfect  presence  of  his  face, 

Which  we,  for  want  of  words,  call  heaven,- 
And  unresponsive  even  there 

This  heart  of  mine  could  still  remain, 
And  its  intrinsic  evil  bear 

To  realms  that  know  no  other  pain. 

Better  down  nature's  scale  to  roll, 

Far  as  the  base,  unbreathing  clod, 
Then  rest  a  conscious  reasoning  soul, 

Impervious  to  the  light  of  God  ; — 
Hateful  the  powers  that  but  divine 

What  we  have  lost  beyond  recall, 
The  intellectual  plummet-line 

That  sounds  the  depths  to  which  we  fall. 


A  PRAYER. 

EVIL,  every  living  hour, 

Holds  us  in  its  wilful  hand, 
Save  as  thou,  essential  Power, 

May'st  be  gracious  to  withstand : 
Pain  within  the  subtle  flesh, 

Heavy  lids  that  cannot  close, 
Hearts  that  hope  will  not  refresh, — 

Hand  of  healing  !  interpose. 

Tyranny's  strong  breath  is  tainting 

Nature's  sweet  and  vivid  air, 
Nations  silently  are  fainting, 

Or  up-gather  in  despair  : 
Not  to  those  distracted  wills 

Trust  the  judgment  of  their  woes  ; 
While  the  cup  of  anguish  fills, 

Arm  of  Justice  !   interpose. 

Pleasures  night  and  day  are  hovering 

Round  their  prey  of  weary  hours, 
Weakness  and  unrest  discovering 

In  the  best  of  human  powers : 
Ere  the  fond  delusions  tire, 

Ere  envenom'd  passion  grows 
From  the  root  of  vain  desire, — 

Mind  of  Wisdom  !  interpose.    , 

Now  no  more  in  tuneful  motion 

Life  with  love  and  duty  glides ; 
Reason's  meteor-lighted  ocean 

Bears  us  down  its  mazy  tides ; 
Head  is  clear  and  hand  is  strong, 

But  our  heart  no  haven  knows ; 
Sun  of  Truth  !  the  night  is  long, — 

Let  thy  radiance  interpose. 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


477 


YOUTH  AND   MANHOOD. 

YOUTH,  that  pursues!  with  such  eager  pace 

Thy  even  way, 
Thou  pantest  on  to  win  a  mournful  race : 

Then  stay  !   oh,  stay  ! 

Pause  and  luxuriate  in  thy  sunny  plain ; 

Loiter, — enjoy  : 
Once  past,  thou  never  wilt  come  back  again 

A  second  boy. 

The  hills  of  manhood  wear  a  noble  face, 

When  seen  from  far  ; 
The  mist  of  light  from  which  they  take  their  grace 

Hides  what  they  are. 

The  dark  and  weary  path  those  cliffs  between 

Thou  canst  not  know, 
And  how  it  leads  to  regions  never-green, 

Dead  fields  of  snow. 

Pause,  while  thou  mayst,  nor  deem  that  fate  thy  gain, 

Which,  all  too  fast, 
Will  drive  thee  forth  from  this  delicious  plain, 

A  man  at  last. 


PAST  FRIENDSHIP. 

WE  that  were  friends,  yet  are  not  now, 

We  that  must  daily  meet, 
With  ready  words  and  courteous  bow 

Acquaintance  of  the  street ; 
We  must  not  scorn  the  holy  past, 

We  must  remember  still 
To  honour  feelings  that  outlast 

The  reason  and  the  will. 

I  might  reprove  thy  broken  faith, 

I  might  recall  the  time 
When  thou  wert  charter'd  mine  till  death, 

Through  every  fate  and  clime  ; 
When  every  letter  was  a  vow, 

And  fancy  was  not  free 
To  dream  of  ended  love  ;  and  thou 

Wouldst  say  the  same  of  me. 

No.  no,  'tis  not  for  us  to  trim 

The  balance  of  our  wrongs, 
Enough  to  leave  remorse  to  him 

To  whom  remorse  belongs  ! 
Let  our  dead  friendship  be  to  us 

A  desecrated  name, 
Unutterable,  mysterious, 

A  sorrow  and  a  shame. 

A  sorrow  that  two  souls  which  grew 

Encased  in  mutual  bliss, 
Should  wander,  callous  strangers,  through 

So  cold  a  world  as  this  ! 
A  shame  that  we,  whose  hearts  had  earn'd 

For  life  an  early  heaven, 
Should  be  like  angels  self-return'd 

To  deall),  when  once  forgiven  ! 

Lf-t  us  remain  as  living  signs, 
Where  they  that  run  may  read 

Pain  and  disgrace  in  many  lines, 
As  of  a  loss  indeed; 


That  of  our  fellows  any,  who 
The  prize  of  love  have  won, 

May  tremble  at  the  thought  to  do 
The  thing  that  we  have  done  I 


DELPHI.— AN  ELEGY. 

BEXEATH  the  vintage  moon's  uncertain  light, 
And  some  faint  stars  that  pierced  the  film  of  cloud, 

Stood  those  Parnassian  peaks  before  my  sight, 
Whose  fame  throughout  the  ancient  world  was 
loud. 

Still  could  I  dimly  trace  the  terraced  lines 
Diverging  from  the  cliffs  on  either  side ; 

A  theatre  whose  steps  were  fill'd  with  shrines 
And  rich  devices  of  Hellenic  pride  ; 

Though  brightest  daylight  would  have  lit  in  vain 
l^he  place  whence  gods  and  worshippers  had  fled; 

Only,  and  they  too  tenantless,  remain 

The  hallovv'd  chambers  of  the  pious  dead. 

Yet  those  wise  architects  an  ample  part 
To  nature  gave  in  their  religious  shows, 

And  thus,  amid  the  sepultures  of  art, 

Still  rise  the  rocks  and  still  the  fountain  flows. 

Desolate  Delphi !  pure  Castalian  spring  ! 

Hear  me  avow  that  I  am  not  as  they — 
Who  deem  that  all  about  you  ministering 

Were  base  impostors,  and  mankind  their  prey ; 

That  the  high  names  they  seem'd  to  love  and  laud 
.    Were  but  the  tools  their  paltry  trade  to  ply ; 
This  pomp  of  faith  a  mere  gigantic  fraud, 
The  apparatus  of  a  mighty  lie  ! 

Let  those  that  will  believe  it ;  I,  for  one, 
Cannot  thus  read  the  history  of  my  kind  ; 

Remembering  all  this  little  Greece  has  done 
To  raise  the  universal  human  mind : 

I  know  that  hierarchs  of  that  wondrous  race, 
By  their  own  faith  alone,  could  keep  alive 

Mysterious  rites  and  sanctity  of  place,— 
Believing  in  whate'er  they  might  contrive. 

It  may  be,  that  these  influences,  combined 
With  such  rare  nature  as  the  priestess  bore, 

Brought  to  the  surface  of  her  stormy  mind 
Distracted  fragments  of  prophetic  lore : 

For,  howsoe'er  to  mortals'  probing  view 
Creation  is  reveal'd,  yet  must  we  pause, 

Weak  to  dissect  the  futile  from  the  true, 
Where'er  imagination  spreads  her  laws. 

So  now  that  dimmer  grows  the  watery  light, 
And  things  each  moment  more  fantastic  seem, 

I  fain  would  seek  if  still  the  gods  have  might 
Over  the  undissembling  world  of  dream: 

I  ask  not  that  for  me  aside  be  cast 

The  solemn  veil  that  hides  what  is  decreed  ; 

I  crave  the  resurrection  of  the  past, 

That  I  may  know  what  Delphi  was  indeed  ! 


478 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


THE  PATIENCE  OF  THE  POOR. 

WHEN  leisurely  the  man  of  ease 

His  morning's  daily  course  begins, 
And  round  him  in  bright  circle  sees 

The  comforts  independence  wins, 
He  seems  unto  himself  to  hold 

An  uncontested  natural  right, 
In  life  a  volume  to  unfold, 

Of  simple  ever-new  delight. 

And  if,  before  the  evening  close, 

The  hours  their  rainbow  wings  let  fall, 
And  sorrow  shakes  his  bland  repose, 

And  too  continuous  pleasures  pall, 
He  murmurs,  as  if  nature  broke 

Some  promise  plighted  at  his  birth, 
In  bending  him  beneath  the  yoke 

Borne  by  the  common  sons  of  earth. 

They  starve  beside  his  plenteous  board, 

They  halt  behind  his  easy  wheels  ; 
But  sympathy  in  vain  affords 

The  sense  of  ills  he  never  feels. 
He  knows  he  is  the  same  as  they, 

A  feeble,  piteous,  mortal  thing, 
And  still  expects  that  every  day 

Increase  and  change  of  bliss  should  bring. 

Therefore,  when  he  is  called  to  know 

The  deep  realities  of  pain, 
He  shrinks  as  from  a  viewless  blow, 

He  writhes  as  in  a  magic  chain  : 
Untaught  that  trial,  toil,  and  care, 

Are  the  great  charter  of  his  kind, 
It  seems  disgrace  for  him  to  share 

Weakness  of  flesh  and  human  mind. 

Not  so  the  people's  honest  child, 

The  field-flower  of  the  open  sky, 
Ready  to  live  while  winds  are  wild, 

Nor,  when  they  soften,  loath  to  die ; 
To  him  there  never  came  the  thought 

That  this,  his  life,  was  meant  to  be 
A  pleasure-house,  where  peace  unbought 

Should  minister  to  pride  or  glee. 

You  oft  may  hear  him  murmur  loud 

Against  the  uneven  lots  of  Fate, 
You  oft  may  see  him  inly  bow'd 

Beneath  affliction's  weight  on  weight : — 
But  rarely  turns  he  on  his  grief 

A  face  of  petulant  surprise, 
Or  scorns  whate'er  benign  relief 

The  hand  of  God  or  man  supplies. 

Behold  him  on  his  rustic  bed 

The  unluxurious  couch  of  need, 
Striving  to  raise  his  aching  head, 

And  sinking  powerless  as  a  reed  : 
So  sick  in  both,  he  hardly  knows 

Which  is  his  heart's  or  body's  sore, 
For  the  more  keen  his  anguish  grows, 

His  wife  and  children  pine  the  more. 

No  search  for  him  of  dainty  food, 
But  coarsest  sustenance  of  life, — 

No  rest  by  artful  quiet  wooed, 

But  household  cries,  and  wants,  and  strife; 


Affection  can  at  best  employ 
Her  utmost  of  unhandy  care, 

Her  prayers  and  tears  are  weak  to  buy 
The  costly  drug,  the  purer  air. 

Pity  herself,  at  such  a  sight, 

Might  lose  her  gentleness  of  mein, 
And  clothe  her  form  in  angry  might, 

And  as  a  wild  despair  be  seen ; 
Did  she  not  hail  the  lesson  taught 

By  this  unconscious  suffering  boor, 
To  the  high  sons  of  lore  and  thought, 

— The  sacred  patience  of  the  poor. 

— This  great  endurance  of  each  ill, 

As  a  plain  fact  whose  right  or  wrong 
They  question  not,  confiding  still, 

That  it  shall  last  not  overlong; 
Willing  from  first  to  last  to  take 

The  mysteries  of  our  life  as  given, 
Leaving  the  time-worn  soul  to  slake 

Its  thirst  in  an  undoubted  heaven. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  LAC  DE  GAUBE 
IN  THE  PYRENEES. 

THE  marriage  blessing  on  their  brows, 

Across  the  Channel  seas 
And  lands  of  gay  Garonne,  they  reach 

The  pleasant  Pyrenees : — 
He,  into  boyhood  born  again, 

A  son  of  joy  and  life, — 
And  she  a  happy  English  girl, 

A  happier  English  wife. 

They  loiter  not  where  Argeles, 

The  chestnut-crested  plain 
Unfolds  its  robe  of  green  and  gold 

In  pasture,  grape,  and  grain  ; 
But  on  and  up,  where  nature's  heart 

Beats  strong  amid  the  hills, 
They  pause,  contented  with  the  wealth 

That  either  bosom  fills. 

There  is  a  lake,  a  small  round  lake, 

High  on  the  mountain's  breast, 
The  child  of  rains  and  melted  snows, 

The  torrent's  summer  rest, — 
A  mirror  where  the  veteran  rocks 

May  glass  their  peaks  and  scars, 
A  nether  sky  where  breezes  break 

The  sunlight  into  stars. 

Oh !  gaily  shone  that  little  lake, 

And  nature,  sternly  fair, 
Put  on  a  sparkling  countenance 

To  greet  that  merry  pair  ; 
How  light  from  stone  to  stone  they  leap'd, 

How  trippingly  they  ran  ; 
To  scale  the  rock  and  gain  the  marge 

Was  all  a  moment's  span  ! 

«  See,  dearest,  this  primaeval  boat. 

So  quaint,  and  rough,  I  deem 
Just  such  an  one  did  Charon  ply 

Across  the  Stygian  stream  : 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


479 


Step  in, — I  will  your  Charon  be, 

And  you  a  Spirit  bold, — 
I  was  a  famous  rower  once 

In  college  days  of  old. 

"  The  clumsy  oar  !  the  laggard  boat ! 

How  slow  we  move  along, — 
The  work  is  harder  than  I  thought, — 

A  song,  my  love,  a  song !" 
Then,  standing  up,  she  caroll'd  out 

So  blythe  and  sweet  a  sti-ain, 
That  the  long-silent  cliffs  were  glad 

To  peal  it  back  again. 

He,  tranced  in  joy,  the  oar  laid  down, 

And  rose  in  careless  pride, 
Arid  swayed  in  cadence  to  the  song 

The  boat  from  side  to  side  : 
Then,  clasping  hand  in  loving  hand, 

They  danced  a  childish  round,    * 
And  felt  as  safe  in  that  mid-lake 

As  on  the  firmest  ground. 

One  poise  too  much  !— He  headlong  fell,— 

She,  stretching  out  to  save 
A  feeble  arm,  was  borne  adown 

Within  that  glittering  grave  : — 
One  moment,  and  the  gush  went  forth 

Of  music-mingled  laughter, — 
The  struggling  splash  and  deathly  shriek 

Were  there  the  instant  after. 

Her  weaker  head  above  the  flood, 

That  quick  engulf'd  the  strong, 
Like  some  enchanted  water-flower, 

Waved  pitifully  long: — 
Long  seem'd  the  low  and  lonely  wail 

Athwart  the  tide  to  fade  ; 
Alas !  that  there  were  some  to  hear, 

But  never  one  to  aid. 

Yet  not,  alas  !  if  Heaven  revered 

The  freshly-spoken  vow, 
And  will'd  that  what  was  then  made  one 

Should  not  be  sunder'd  now, — 
If  she  was  spared,  by  that  sharp  stroke, 

Love's  most  unnatural  doom, 
The  future  lorn  and  unconsoled, 

The  unavoided  tomb  ! 

But  weep,  ye  very  rocks  !  for  those, 

Who,  on  their  native  shore, 
Await  the  letters  of  dear  news, 

That  shall  arrive  no  more  ; 
One  letter  from  a  stranger  hand, — • 

Few  words  are  all  the  need ; 
And  then  the  funeral  of  the  heart, 

The  course  of  useless  speed  ! 

The  presence  of  the  cold  dead  wood, 

The  single  mark  and  sign 
Of  her  so  loved  and  beautiful, 

That  handiwork  divine ! 
The  weary  search  for  his  fine  form 

That  in  the  depth  would  linger, 
And  late  success, — Oh !  leave  the  ring 

Upon  that  faithful  finger. 


And  if  in  life  there  lie  the  seed 

Of  real  enduring  being, — 
If  love  and  truth  be  not  decreed 

To  perish  unforeseeing, — 
This  youth,  the  seal  of  death  has  stampt, 

Now  time  can  wither  never, 
This  hope,  that  sorrow  might  have  dampt, 

Is  fresh  and  strong  for  ever. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

WHO  is  this  man  whose  words  have  might 

To  lead  you  from  your  rest  or  care, 
Who  speaks  as  if  the  earth  were  right 

To  stop  its  course  and  listen  there  1 
Where  is  the  symbol  of  command 

By  which  he  claims  this  lofty  tone  1 
His  hand  is  as  another's  hand, — 

His  speech  no  stronger  than  your  own. 

He  bids  you  wonder,  weep,  rejoice, 

Saying, — «  It  is  yourselves,  not  I ; 
I  speak  but  with  the  people's  voice, 

I  see  but  with  the  people's  eye." — 
Words  of  imposing  pride  and  strength, 

Words  that  contain,  in  little  span, 
The  secret  of  the  heighth  and  length 

Of  all  the  intelligence  of  man. 

Yet,  brothers !  God  has  given  to  few, 

Through  the  long  progress  of  our  kind, 
To  read  with  eyes  undimm'd  and  true 

The  blotted  book  of  public  mind  ; 
To  separate  from  the  moment's  will 

The  heart's  enduring  real  desires, 
To  tell  the  steps  of  coming  ill, 

And  seek  the  good  the  time  requires. 

These  are  the  prophets,  these  the  kings, 

And  lawgivers  of  human  thought, 
Who  in  our  being's  deepest  springs 

The  engines  of  their  might  have  sought ; 
Whose  utterance  comes,  we  know  not  whence, 

Being  no  more  their  own  than  ours, 
With  instantaneous  evidence 

Of  titles  just  and  sacred  powers. 

But  bold  usurpers  may  arise 

Of  this  as  of  another's  throne ; 
Persuasion  waits  upon  the  wise, 

But  waits  not  on  the  wise  alone : 
An  echo  of  your  evil  self 

No  better  than  the  voice  can  be, 
And  appetites  of  fame  or  pelf 

Grow  not  in  good  as  in  degree. 

Then  try  the  speaker,  try  the  cause, 

With  prudent  care,  as  men  who  know 
The  subtle  nature  of  the  laws 

By  which  our  feelings  ebb  and  flow: 
Lest  virtue's  void  and  reason's  lack 

Be  hid  beneath  a  specious  name, 
And  on  the  people's  helpless  back 

Rest  all  the  punishment  and  shame. 


480 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNE8. 


ALMS-GIVING. 

WHEJT  poverty,  with  mein  of  shame, 

The  sense  of  pity  seeks  to  touch, — 
Or,  bolder,  makes  the  simple  claim 

That  I  have  nothing,  you  have  much, — 
Believe  not  either  man  or  book 

That  bids  you  close  the  opening  hand, 
And  with  reproving  speech  and  look 

Your  first  and  free  intent  withstand. 

It  may  be  that  the  tale  you  hear 

Of  pressing  wants  and  losses  borne 
Is  heapt  or  colour'd  for  your  ear, 

And  tatters  for  the  purpose  worn  ; 
But  surely  poverty  has  not 

A  sadder  need  than  this,  to  wear 
A  mask  still  meaner  than  her  lot, 

Compassion's  scanty  food  to  share. 

It  may  be  that  you  err  to  give 

What  will  but  tempt  to  further  spoil 
Those  who  in  low  content  would  live 

On  theft  of  others'  time  and  toil ; 
Yet  sickness  may  have  broke  or  bent 

The  active  frame  or  vigorous  will, — 
Or  hard  occasion  may  prevent 

Their  exercise  of  humble  skill. 

It  may  be  that  the  suppliant's  life 

Has  lain  on  many  an  evil  way 
Of  foul  delight  and  brutal  strife, 

And  lawless  deeds  that  shun  the  day ; 
But  how  can  any  gauge  of  yours 

The  depth  of  that  temptation  try  ? 
— What  man  resists — what  man  endures, — 

Is  open  to  one  only  eye. 

Why  not  believe  the  homely  letter 

That  all  you  give  will  God  restore  1 
The  poor  man  may  deserve  it  better, 

And  surely,  surely  wants  it  more : 
Let  but  the  rich  man  do  his  part, 

And  whatsoe'er  the  issue  be 
To  those  who  ask,  his  answering  heart 

Will  gain  and  grow  in  sympathy. 

— Suppose  that  each  from  nature  got 

Bare  quittance  of  his  labour's  worth, 
That  yearly-teeming  flocks  were  not, 

Nor  manifold-producing  earth ; 
No  wilding  growths  of  fruit  arid  flower, 

Cultured  to  beautiful  and  good, 
No  creatures  for  the  arm  of  power 

To  take  and  tame  from  waste  and  wood  !- 

That  all  men  to  their  mortal  rest 

Past  shadow-like,  and  left  behind 
No  free  result,  no  clear  bequest, 

Won  by  their  work  of  hand  or  mind  ! 
That  every  separate  life  begun 

A  present  to  the  past  unbound, 
A  lonely,  independent,  one, 

Sprung  from  the  cold  mechanic  ground ! 

What  would  the  record  of  the  past, 
The  vision  of  the  future  be  1 


Nature  unchanged  from  first  to  last, 
And  base  the  best  humanity  : 

For  in  these  gifts  lies  all  the  space 
Between  our  England's  noblest  men 

And  the  most  vile  Australian  race 
Outprowling  from  their  bushy  den. 

Then  freely  as  from  age  to  age, 

Descending  generations  bear 
The  accumulated  heritage 

Of  friendly  and  parental  care,— 
Freely  as  nature  tends  her  wealth 

Of  air  and  fire,  of  sea  and  land, 
Of  childhood's  happiness  and  health, 

So  freely  open  you  your  hand  ! 

— Between  you  and  your  best  intent 

Necessity  her  brazen  bar 
Will  often  interpose,  as  sent 

Your  pure  benevolence  to  mar ; 
Still  every  gentle  word  has  sway 

To  teach  the  pauper's  desperate  mood 
That  misery  shall  not  take  away 

Franchise  of  human  brotherhood. 

And  if  this  lesson  come  too  late, 

Wo  to  the  rich  and  poor  and  all ! 
The  madden'd  outcast  of  the  gate 

Plunders  and  murders  in  the  hall ; 
Justice  can  crush  and  hold  in  awe, 

While  hope  in  social  order  reigns, — 
But  if  the  myriads  break  the  law, 

They  break  it  as  a  slave  his  chains ! 


LABOUR. 

HEART  of  the  People  !    Working  men ! 

Marrow  and  nerve  of  human  powers ; 
Who  on  your  sturdy  backs  sustain 

Through  streaming  time  this  world  of  ours ; 
Hold  by  that  title, — which  proclaims 

That  ye  are  undismay'd  and  strong, 
Accomplishing  whatever  aims 

May  to  the  sons  of  earth  belong. 

Yet  not  on  ye  alone  depend 

These  offices,  or  burdens  fall ; 
Labour,  for  some  or  other  end, 

Is  lord  and  master  of  us  all. 
The  high-born  youth  from  downy  bed 

Must  meet  the  morn  with  horse  and  hound, 
While  industry  for  daily  bread 

Pursues  afresh  his  wonted  round. 

With  all  his  pomp  of  pleasure,  he 

Is  but  your  working  comrade  now, 
And  shouts  and  winds  his  horn,  as  ye 

Might  whistle  by  the  loom  or  plough  ; 
In  vain  for  him  has  wealth  the  use 

Of  warm  repose  and  careless  joy, — 
When,  as  ye  labour  to  produce, 

He  strives,  as  active,  to  destroy. 

But  who  is  this  with  wasted  frame, 
Sad  sign  of  vigour  overwrought  ? 

What  toil  can  this  new  victim  claim  ? 
Pleasure,  for  pleasure's  sake  besought. 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


481 


How  men  would  mock  her  flaunting  shows, 
Her  golden  promise,  if  they  knew 

What  weary  work  she  is  to  those 
Who  have  no  better  work  to  do  ! 

And  he  who  still  and  silent  sits 

In  closed  room  or  shady  nook, 
And  seems  to  nurse  his  idle  wits 

With  folded  arms  or  open  book  : 
To  things  now  working  in  that  mind 

Your  children's  children  well  may  owe 
Blessings  that  hope  has  ne'er  defined, 

Till  from  his  busy  thoughts  they  flow. 

Thus  all  must  work  :  with  head  or  hand, 

For  self  or  others,  good  or  ill ; 
Life  is  ordain'd  to  bear,  like  land, 

Some  fruit,  be  fallow  as  it  will : 
Evil  has  force  itself  to  sow 

Where  we  deny  the  healthy  seed, — 
And  all  our  choice  is  this, — to  grow 

Pasture  and  grain,  or  noisome  weed. 

Then  in  content  possess  your  hearts, 

Unenvious  of  each  other's  lot, — 
For  those  which  seem  the  easiest  parts 

Have  travail  which  ye  reckon  not : 
And  he  is  bravest,  happiest,  best, 

Who,  from  the  task  within  his  span, 
Earns  for  himself  his  evening  rest,  - 

And  an  increase  of  good  for  man. 


THE  VOICES  OF  HISTORY. 

THE  poet  in  his  vigil  hears 

Time  flowing  through  the  night, — 
A  mighty  stream,  absorbing  tears, 

And  bearing  down  delight : 
There,  resting  on  his  bank  of  thought 

He  listens,  till  his  soul 
The  voices  of  the  waves  has  caught, — 

The  meaning  of  their  roll. 

First,  wild  and  wildering  as  the  strife 

Of  earthly  winds  and  seas, 
Resounds  the  long  historic  life 

Of  warring  dynasties  : — 
Uncertain  right  and  certain  wrong 

In  onward  conflict  driven, 
The  threats  and  tramplings  of  the  strong 

Beneath  a  brazen  heaven. 

The  cavernous  unsounded  East 

Outpours  an  evil  tide, 
Drowning  the  hymn  of  patriarch  priest, 

The  chant  of  shepherd  bride  : 
How  can  we  catch  the  angel-word, 

How  mark  the  prophet-sound, 
Mid  thunders  like  Niagara's,  heard 

An  hundred  miles  around  1 

From  two  small  springs  that  rise  and  blend, 

And  leave  their  Latin  home, 
The  waters  East  and  West  extend, — 

The  ocean-power  of  Rome  : 
61 


Voices  of  victories  ever-won, 

Of  pride  that  will  not  stay, 
Billows  that  burst  and  perish  on 

The  shores  they  wear  away. 

Till,  in  a  race  of  fierce  delight, 

Tumultuous  battle  forth, 
The  snows  amast  on  many  a  height, 

The  cataracts  of  the  North  : 
What  can  we  hear  beside  the  roar, 

What  see  beneath  the  foam, 
What  but  the  wrecks  that  strew  the  shore, 

And  cries  of  falling  Rome  1 

Nor,  when  a  purer  faith  had  traced 

Safe  channels  for  the  tide, 
Did  streams  with  Eden-lilies  graced 

In  Eden-sweetness  glide ; 
While  the  deluded  gaze  admires 

The  smooth  and  shining  flow, 
Vile  interests  and  insane  desires 

Gurgle  and  rage  below. 

If  history  has  no  other  sounds, 

Why  should  we  listen  more  1 
Spirit !  despise  terrestrial  bounds, 

And  seek  a  happier  shore ; 
Yet  pause  !  for  on  thine  inner  ear 

A  mystic  music  grows, — 
And  mortal  man  shall  never  hear 

That  diapason's  close. 

Nature  awakes  !  a  rapturous  tone, 

Still  different,  still  the  same, — 
Eternal  effluence  from  the  throne 

Of  Him  without  a  name  ; 
A  symphony  of  worlds  begun, 

Ere  sin  the  glory  mars, 
The  cymbals  of  the  new-born  sun, 

The  trumpets  of  the  stars. 

Then  beauty  all  her  subtlest  chords 

Dissolves  and  knits  again, 
And  law  composes  jarring  words 

In  one  harmonious  chain  : 
And  loyalty's  enchanting  notes 

Outswelling  fade  away, 
While  knowledge,  from  ten  thousand  throats, 

Proclaims  a  graver  sway. 

Well,  if,  by  senses  unbefool'd, 

Attentive  souls  may  scan 
Those  great  ideas  that  have  ruled 

The  total  mind  of  man  ; 
Yet  is  there  music  deeper  still, 

Of  fine  and  holy  woof, 
Comfort  and  joy  to  all  that  will 

Keep  ruder  noise  aloof. 

A  music  simple  as  the  sky, 

Monotonous  as  the  sea, 
Recurrent  as  the  flowers  that  die 

And  rise  again  in  glee ; 
A  melody  that  childhood  sings 

Without  a  thought  of  art, 
Drawn  from  a  few  familiar  strings, 

The  fibres  of  the  heart. 
28 


482 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


Through  tent,  and  cot,  and  proud  saloon, 

This  audible  delight 
Of  nightingales  that  love  the  noon, 

Of  larks  that  court  the  night, — 
We  feel  it  all, — the  hopes  and  fears 

That  language  faintly  tells, 
The  spreading  smiles, — the  passing  tears, 

The  meetings  and  farewells. 

These  harmonies  that  all  can  share, 

When  chronicled  by  one, 
Enclose  us  like  the  living  air, 

Unending,  unbegun  ; — 
Poet !  esteem  thy  noble  part, 

Still  listen,  still  record, 
Sacred  historian  of  the  heart, 

And  moral  nature's  lord  ! 


NAPLES  AND  VENICE. 

OVERLOOKING,  overhearing, 
Naples,  and  her  subject  bay 

Stands  Camaldolr,  the  convent, 
Shaded  from  the  inclement  ray. 

Thou,  who  to  that  lofty  terrace 
Lovest  on  summer  eve  to  go, 

Tell  me,  poet !  what  thou  seest, 
What  thou  hearest,  there  below  ! 

Beauty,  beauty,  perfect  beauty  ! 

Sea  and  city,  hills  and  air, 
Rather  blest  imaginations 

Than  realities  of  fair. 

Forms  of  grace  alike  contenting, 
Casual  glance  and  steadfast  gaze, 

Tender  lights  of  pearl  and  opal 
Mingling  with  the  diamond  blaze. 

Sea  as  is  but  deepen'd  ether : 

White  as  snow-wreaths  sunbeshone 

Lean  the  palaces  and  temples 
Green  and  purple  heights  upon. 

Streets  and  paths  mine  eye  is  tracing, 
All  replete  with  clamorous  throng, 

Where  I  see  and  where  I  see  not 
Waves  of  uproar  roll  along. 

As  the  sense  of  bees  unnumber'd, 
Burning  through  the  walk  of  limes,. 

As  the  thought  of  armies  gathering 
Round  a  chief  in  ancient  times, — 

So  from  Corso,  Port,  and  Garden 
Rises  life's  tumultuous  strain, 

Not  secure  from  wildest  utterance 
Rests  the  perfect-crystal  main. 

Still  the  all-enclosing  beauty 

Keeps  my  spirit  free  from  harm, — 

Distance  blends  the  veriest  discords 
Into  some  melodious  charm. 

— Overlooking,  overhearing, 
Venice  and  her  sister  isles, 

Stands  the  giant  Campanile, 
Massive  mid  a  thousand  piles. 


Thou  who  to  this  open  summit 

Lovest  at  every  hour  to  go, 
Tell  me,  poet !  what  thou  seest, 

What  thou  hearest,  there  below. 
Wonder,  wonder,  perfect  wonder  ! 

Ocean  is  the  city's  moat ; 
On  the  bosom  of  broad  ocean 

Seems  the  mighty  weight  to  float : 
Seems,  yet  stands  as  strong  and  stable 

As  on  land  e'er  city  shall, — 
Only  moves  that  ocean-serpent, 

Tide-impell'd,  the  great  canal. 

Rich  arcades  and  statued  pillars, 

Gleaming  banners,  burnish'd  domes, — 

Ships  approaching, — ships  departing, — 
Countless  ships  in  harbour-homes. 

Yet  so  silent!  scarce  a  murmur 

Wing'd  to  reach  this  airy  seat, 
Hardly  from  the  close  piazza 

Rises  sound  of  voice  or  feet. 
Plash  of  oar  or  single  laughter, — 

Cry  or  song  of  gondolier, — 
Signals  far  between  to  tell  me 

That  the  work  of  life  is  here. 
Like  a  glorious  maiden  dreaming 

Music  in  the  drowsy  heat, 
Lies  the  city,  unbetokening 

Where  its  myriad  pulses  beat. 

And  I  think  myself  in  cloudland, — 
Almost  try  my  power  of  will, 

Whether  I  can  change  the  picture, 
Or  it  must  be  Venice  still. 

When  the  question  wakes  within  me, 
Which  hath  won  the  crown  of  deed, 

Venice  with  her  moveless  silence, 
Naples  with  her  noisy  speed  1 

Which  hath  writ  the  goodlier  tablet 
For  the  past  to  hoard  and  show, 

Venice  in  her  student  stillness, 
Naples  in  her  living  glow  1 

Here  are  chronicles  with  virtues 
Studded  as  the  night  with  stars, — 

Records  there  of  passions  raging 
Through  a  wilderness  of  wars  : 

There  a  tumult  of  ambitions, 

Power  afloat  on  blood  and  tears, — 

Here  one  simple  reign  of  wisdom 
Stretching  thirteen  hundred  years : 

Self-subsisting,  self-devoted, 

There  the  moment's  hero  ruled, — 

Here  the  state,  each  one  subduing, 
Pride  enchain'd  and  passion  school'd 

Here  was  art  the  nation's  mistress, 
Art  of  colour,  art  of  stone, — 

There  before  the  Icman  pleasure 
Bow'd  the  people's  heart  alone. 

Venice !  vocal  is  thy  silence, 
Can  our  soul  but  rightly  hear ; 

Naples  !  dumb  as  death  thy  voices, 
Listen  we  however  near. 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


4t3 


PASTORAL  SONG. 

I  WATTDER'D  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wander'd  by  the  mill, — 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beside  the  elm-tree, 

I  watcht  the  long,  long  shade, 
And  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid ; 
For  I  listen'd  for  a  footfall, 

I  listen'd  for  a  word, — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not, — no,  he  came  not, — 

The  night  came  on  alone, — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 

Each  on  a  golden  throne  ; 
The  evening  air  past  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirr'd, — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  ail  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind, — 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind : 
It  drew  me  nearer — nearer, — 

We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


SONG  OF  THOUGHTS. 

LET  the  lays  from  poet-lips 

Shadow  forth  the  speech  of  heaven, — 
Let  melodious  airs  eclipse 

All  delight  to  senses  giver* ; 
Yet  to  these  my  notes  and  words 

Listen  with  your  heart  alone, 
While  the  thought  that  best  accords 

Makes  a  music  of  its  own. 

Ye  that  in  the  fields  of  love 

Feel  the  breath  arid  bloom  of  spring, 
While  I  sing,  securely  rove, — 

Rest  in  safety,  while  I  sing. — 
Ye  that  gaze  with  vain  regret 

Back  towards  that  holy  ground, 
AH  the  world  between  forgot 

Spirit-rockt  from  sound  to  sound. 

All  indifference,  all  distrust, 

From  old  friendships  pass  away  ! 
Let  the  faces  of  the  just 

Shine  as  in  God's  perfect  day  ! 
Fix  the  faintest,  fleetest  smile, 

E'er  athwart  your  path  has  gleam'd — 
Take  the  charm  without  the  wile, — 

Be  the  beauty  all  it  seem'd  ! 


Mid  the  flowers  you  love  the  best, 

Summer  pride  or  vernal  boon — 
By  your  favourite  light  carest, 

Blush  of  eve  or  glow  of  noon, — 
Blend  the  strains  of  happiest  days 

With  the  voices  held  most  dear; 
Children  cast  on  weary  ways  ! 

Rest  in  peace  and  pleasaurice  here. 

Be  the  future's  glorious  page 

In  my  tones  to  youth  reveal'd ; 
Let  the  ruffled  brow  of  age 

With  eternal  calm  be  seal'd : 
High  as  heaven's  ethereal  cope, 

Wide  as  light's  rejoicing  ray, 
Thoughts  of  memory  !    Thoughts  of  hope  ! 

Wander,  wander,  while  ye  may. 


RICH  AND  POOR. 

WHEX  God  built  up  the  dome  of  blue, 

And  portion'd  earth's  prolific  floor, 
The  measure  of  his  wisdom  drew 

A  line  between  the  rich  and  poor ; 
And  till  that  vault  of  glory  fall, 

Or  beauteous  earth  be  scarr'd  with  flame, 
Or  saving  love  be  all  in  all, 

That  rule  of  life  will  rest  the  same. 

We  know  not  why,  we  know  not  how, 

Mankind  are  framed  for  weal  or  wo — 
But  to  the  eternal  law  we  bow ; 

If  such  things  are,  they  must  be  so. 
Yet,  let  no  cloudy  dreams  destroy       ' 

One  truth  outshining  bright  and  clear, 
That  wealth  is  only  hope  and  joy, 

And  poverty  but  pain  and  fear. 

Behold  our  children  as  they  play  ! 

Blest  creatures,  fresh  from  nature's  hand; 
The  peasant  boy  as  great  and  gay 

As  the  young  heir  to  gold  and  land ; 
Their  various  toys  of  equal  worth, 

Their  little  needs  of  equal  care, 
And  halls  of  marble,  huts  of  earth, 

All  homes  alike  endear'd  and  fair. 

They  know  no  better !  would  that  we 

Could  keep  our  knowledge  safe  from  worse; 
So  power  should  find  and  leave  us  free, 

So  pride  be  but  the  owner's  curse ; 
So,  without  marking  which  was  which, 

Our  hearts  would  tell,  by  instinct  sure, 
What  paupers  are  the  ambitious  rich ! 

How  wealthy  the  contented  poor ! 

Grant  us,  O  God  !  but  health  and  heart, 

And  strength  to  keep  desire  at  bay, 
And  ours  must  be  the  better  part, 

Whatever  else  besets  our  way. 
Each  day  may  bring  sufficient  ill ; 

But  we  can  meet  and  fight  it  through, 
If  hope  sustains  the  hand  of  will, 

And  conscience  is  our  captain  too. 


484 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


STANZAS,    . 

BECAUSE,  from  all  that  round  thee  move, 
Planets  of  beauty,  strength,  and  grace, 

I  am  elected  to  thy  love, 

And  have  my  home  in  thy  embrace, 

I  wonder  all  men  do  not  see 

The  crown  that  thou  hast  set  on  me. 

Because,  when  prostrate  at  thy  feet, 
Thou  didst  emparadise  my  pain, — 

Because  thy  heart  on  mine  has  beat, 
Thy  head  within  my  hands  has  lain, 

I  am  transfigured,  by  that  sign, 
Into  a  being  like  to  thine. 

The  mirror  from  its  glossy  plain 
Receiving  still  returns  the  light, 

And  being  generous  of  its  gain, 
Augments  the  very  solar  might : 

What  unrefiected  light  would  be, 

Is  just  thy  spirit  without  me. 

Thou  art  the  flame,  whose  rising  spire 
In  the  dark  air  sublimely  sways, 

And  I  the  tempest  that  swift  fire 
Gathers  at  first,  and  then  obeys : 

All  that  was  thine  ere  we  were  wed 

Have  I  by  right  inherited. 

Is  life  a  stream '?  Then  from  thy  hair 
One  rosebud  on  the  current  fell, 

And  straight  it  turn'd  to  crystal  there, 
As  adamant  immovable : 

Its  steadfast  place  shall  know  no  more 

The  sense  of  after  and  before. 

Is  life  a  plant  ?     The  king  of  years 
To  mine  nor  good  nor  ill  can  bring ; — 

Mine  grows  no  more ;  no  more  it  fears 
Even  the  brushing  of  his  wing; 

With  sheathed  scythe  I  see  him  go, — 

I  have  no  flowers  that  he  can  mow. 


THE  FRIENDSHIP  FLOWER. 

WHE^  first  the  Friendship-flower  is  planted 

Within  the  garden  of  your  soul, 
Little  of  care  or  thought  are  wanted 

To  guard  its  beauty  fresh  and  whole; 
But  when  the  one  empassion'd  age 

Has  full  reveal'd  the  magic  bloom, 
A  wise  and  holy  tutelage 

Alone  can  shun  the  open  tomb. 

It  is  not  absence  you  should  dread, — 

For  absence  is  the  very  air 
In  which,  if  sound  at  root,  the  head 

Shall  wave  most  wonderful  and  fair  ; 
With  sympathies  of  joy  and  sorrow 

Fed,  as  with  morn  and  even  dews, 
Ideal  colouring  it  may  borrow 

Richer  than  ever  earthly  hues. 

But  oft  the  plant,  whose  leaves  unsere 
Refresh  the  desert,  hardly  brooKS 

The  common-people'd  atmosphere 

Of  daily  thoughts,  and  words,  and  looks ; 


It  trembles  at  the  brushing  wings 
Of  many  a  careless  fashion-fly, 

And  strange  suspicions  aim  their  stings 
To  taint  it  as  they  wanton  by. 

Rare  is  the  heart  to  bear  a  flower, 

That  must  not  wholly  fall  and  fade, 
Where  alien  feelings,  hour  by  hour, 

Spring  up,  beset,  and  overshade ; 
Better,  a  child  of  care  and  toil, 

To  glorify  some  needy  spot, 
Than  in  a  glad  redundant  soil 

To  pine  neglected  and  forgot. 

Yet  when,  at  last,  by  human  slight, 

Or  close  of  their  permitted  day, 
From  the  sweet  world  of  life  and  light 

Such  fine  creations  lapse  away, — 
Bury  the  relics  that  retain 

Sick  odours  of  departed  pride, — 
Hoard  as  ye  will  your  memory's  gain, 

But  let  them  perish  where  they  died. 


THE  MEN  OF  OLD. 


not  that  the  men  of  old 

Were  better  than  men  now, 
Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold, 

Of  more  ingenuous  brow  : 
I  heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 

A  ghost  of  time  to  raise, 
As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 

Of  these  appointed  days. 

Still  it  is  true,  and  over  true, 

That  I  delight  to  close 
This  book  of  life  self-wise  and  new, 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness, 

The  world  has  since  foregone,  — 
The  daylight  of  contented  ness 

That  on  those  faces  shone  ! 

• 

With  rights,  though  not  too  closely  scann  d, 

Enjoyed,  as  far  as  known,  — 
With  will  by  no  reverse  unmann'd,  — 

With  pulse  of  even  tone,  — 
They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night 

Expected  nothing  more, 
Then  yesterday  and  yesternight 

Had  proffer'd  them  before. 

To  them  was  life,  a  simple  art 

Of  duties  to  be  done, 
A  game  where  each  man  took  his  part, 

A  race  where  all  must  run; 
A  battle  whose  great  scheme  and  scope 

They  little  cared  to  know, 
Content,  as  men  at  arms,  to  cope 

Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 

Man  now  his  virtue's  diadem 

Puts  on  and  proudly  wears, 
Great  thoughts,  great  feelings,  came  to  them, 

Like  instincts,  unawares: 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


485 


Blending  their  souls'  sublimest  needs 

With  tasks  of  every  day, 
They  went  about  their  gravest  deeds, 

As  noble  boys  at  play. 

And  what  if  nature's  fearful  wound 

They  did  not  probe  and  bare, 
For  that  their  spirits  never  swoon'd 

To  watch  the  misery  there, — 
For  that  their  love  but  flow'd  more  fast, 

Their  charities  more  free, 
Not  conscious  what  mere  drops  they  cast 

Into  the  evil  sea. 

A  man's  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  feet, 
It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 

That  we  are  sick  to  greet : 
For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 

We  struggle  and  aspire, 
Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 

The  air  of  fresh  desire. 

But,  brothers,  who  up  reason's  hill 

Advance  with  hopeful  cheer, 
Oh  !  loiter  not,  those  heights  are  chill, 

As  chill  as  they  are  clear ; 
And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze, 

The  loftier  that  ye  go, 
Remembering  distance  leaves  a  haze 

On  all  that  lies  below. 


ON     LADY     C- 


IN    DECLINING 


HEALTH. 

GENTLY  supported  by  the  ready  aid 

Of  loving  hands,  whose  little  work  of  toil 
Her  grateful  prodigality  repaid 

With  all  the  benediction  of  her  smile, 
She  turned  her  failing  feet 
To  the  soft-pillow'd  seat, 
Dispensing  kindly  greetings  all  the  while. 

Before  the  tranquil  beauty  of  her  face 

I  bow'd  in  spirit,  thinking  that  she  were 
A  suffering  angel,  whom  t  e  special  grace 
Of  God  intrusted  to  our  pious  care, 
That  we  might  learn  from  her 
The  art  to  minister 
To  heavenly  beings  in  seraphic  air. 

There  seem'd  to  lie  a  weight  upon  her  brain, 

That  ever  prest  her  blue-vein'd  eyelids  down, 
But  could  not  dim  her  lustrous  eyes  with  pain, 
Nor  seam  her  forehead  with  the  faintest  frown  ; 
She  was  as  she  were  proud. 
So  young,  to  be  allow'd 
To  follow  Him  who  wore  the  thorny  crown. 

Nor  was  she  sad,  but  over  every  mood, 

To  which  her  lightly-pliant  mind  gave  birth, 
Gracefully  changing,  did  a  spirit  brood, 
Of  quiet  gayety  and  serenest  mirth  ; 
And  thus  her  voice  did  flow, 
So  beautifully  low, 
A  stream  whose  music  was  no  thing  of  earth. 


Woman  divine  !  ideal  best-beloved, 

Here  was  thy  image  realized  to  me ; 
In  sensible  existence  lived  and  moved 
The  vision  of  my  sacred  phantasy  ; 
Madonna  !  Mary  mine  ! 
Her  look,  her  smile,  was  thine, — 
And  gazing  on  that  form,  I  worshipt  thee. 


THE  LONG-AGO. 

EYES  which  can  but  ill  define 

Shapes  that  rise  about  and  near, 
Through  the  far  horizon's  line 

Stretch  a  vision  free  and  clear  : 
Memories  feeble  to  retrace 

Yesterday's  immediate  flow, 
Find  a  dear  familiar  face 

In  each  hour  of  long-ago. 

Follow  yon  majestic  train 

Down  the  slopes  of  old  renown, 
Knightly  forms  without  disdain, 

Sainted  heads  without  a  frown ; 
Emperors  of  thought  and  hand 

Congregate,  a  glorious  show, 
Met  from  every  age  and  land 

In  the  plains  of  long-ago. 

As  the  heart  of  childhood  brings 

Something  of  eternal  joy, 
From  its  own  unsounded  springs, 

Such  as  life  can  scarce  destroy  ; 
So,  remindful  of  the  prime 

Spirits,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Rest  upon  the  resting  time 

In  the  peace  of  long-ago. 

Youthful  hope's  religious  fire, 

When  it  burns  no  longer,  leaves 
Ashes  of  impure  desire 

On  the  altars  it  deceives ; 
But  the  light  that  fills  the  past 

Sheds  a  still  diviner  glow, 
Ever  farther  it  is  cast 

O'er  the  scenes  of  long-ago. 

Many  a  growth  of  pain  and  care, 

Cumbering  all  the  present  hour, 
Yields,  when  once  transplanted  there, 

Healthy  fruit  or  pleasant  flower ; 
Thoughts  that  hardly  flourish  here, 

Feelings  long  have  ceased  to  blow, 
Breathe  a  native  atmosphere 

In  the  world  of  long-ago. 

On  that  deep-retiring  shore 

Frequent  pearls  of  beauty  lie, 
Where  the  passion-waves  of  yore 

Fiercely  beat  and  mounted  high  : 
Sorrows  that  are  sorrows  still 

Lose  the  bitter  taste  of  woe; 
Nothing's  altogether  ill 

In  the  griefs  of  long-ago. 
2s2 


466 


RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 


Tombs  where  lonely  love  repines, 

Ghastly  tenements  of  tears, 
Wear  the  look  of  happy  shrines 

Through  the  golden  mist  of  years: 
Death,  to  those  who  trust  in  good, 

Vindicates  his  hardest  Mow  ; 
Oh !  we  would  not,  if  we  could, 

Wake  the  sleep  of  long-ago ! 

Though  the  doom  of  swift  decay 

Shocks  the  soul  where  life  is  strong, 
Though  for  frailer  hearts  the  day 

Lingers  sad  and  overlong, — 
Still  the  weight  will  find  a  leaven, 

Still  the  spoiler's  hand  is  slow, 
While  the  future  has  its  heaven, 

And  the  past  its  long-ago. 


PRINCE  EMILIUS  OF  HESSEN-DARM- 
STADT. 

FROM  Hessen-Darmstadt  every  step 

To  Moskwa's  hlazing  banks, 
Was  Prince  Emilius  found  in  fight, 

Before  the  foremost  ranks ; 
And  when  upon  the  icy  waste, 

That  host  was  backward  cast, 
On  Beresina's  bloody  bridge, 

His  banner  waved  the  last. 

His  valour  shed  victorious  grace 

On  all  that  dread  retreat, 
That  path  across  the  wildering  snow, 

Athwart  the  blinding  sleet ; 
And  every  follower  of  his  sword 

Could  all  endure  and  dare, 
Becoming  warriors  strong  in  hope, 

Or  stronger  in  despair. 

Wow,  day  and  dark,  along  the  storm 

The  demon  Cossacks  sweep  ; 
The  hungriest  must  not  look  for  food, 

The  weariest  must  not  sleep  ; 
No  rest,  but  death,  for  horse  or  man, 

Whichever  first  shall  tire; — 
They  see  the  flames  destroy,  but  ne'er 

May  feel  the  saving  fire. 

Thus  never  closed  the  bitter  night, 

Nor  rose  the  savage  morn, 
But  from  that  gallant  company 

Some  noble  part  was  shorn, 
And,  sick  at  heart,  the  prince  resolved, 

To  keep  his  purposed  way, 
With  steadfast,  forward  looks,  nor  count 

The  losses  of  the  day. 

At  length  beside  a  black-burnt  hut, 

An  island  of  the  snow, — 
Each  head  in  frigid  stupor  bent 

Toward  the  saddle  bow, — 
They  paused,  and  of  that  sturdy  troop, 

That  thousand  banded  men, 


At  one  unmeditated  glance, 
He  number'd  only  ten  ! 

Of  all  that  high  triumphant  life 

That  left  his  German  home, 
Of  all  those  hearts  that  beat  beloved, 

Or  lookt  for  love  to  come, 
This  piteous  remnant  hardly  saved 

His  spirit  overcame, 
While  memory  raised  each  friendly  face, 

And  called  each  ancient,  name. 

Then  were  his  words  serene  and  firm — 

"  Dear  brothers,  it  is  best 
That  here,  with  perfect  trust  in  Heaven, 

We  give  our  bodies  rest ; 
If  we  have  borne,  like  faithful  men, 

Our  part  of  toil  and  pain, 
Where'er  we  wake,  for  Christ's  good  sake, 

We  shall  not  sleep  in  vain." 

Some  utter'd,  others  lookt  assent, 

They  had  no  heart  to  speak ; 
Dumb  hands  were  prest,  the  pallid  lip, 

Approacht  the  callous  cheek  ; 
They  laid  them  side  by  side ;  and  death 

To  him  at  least  did  seem 
To  come  attired  in  mazy  robe 

Of  variegated  dream. 

Once  more  he  floated  on  the  breast 

Of  old  familiar  Rhine, 
His  mother's  and  one  other  smile 

Above  him  seemed  to  shine  ; 
A  blessed  dew  of  healing  fell 

On  every  aching  limb, 
Till  the  stream  broaden'd  and  the  air 

Thicken'd  and  all  was  dim. 

Nature  has  bent  to  other  laws, 

If  that  tremendous  night 
Past  o'er  his  frame  exposed  and  worn, 

And  left  no  deadly  blight; 
Then  wonder  not  that  when  refresht 

And  warm  he  woke  at  last, 
There  lay  a  boundless  gulf  of  thought 

Between  him  and  the  past. 

Soon  raising  his  astonisht  head 

He  found  himself  alone, 
Shelter'd  beneath  a  genial  heap 

Of  vestments  not  his  own  ; 
The  light  increast  the  solemn  truth 

Revealing  more  and  more, — 
His  soldiers  corses  self-despoiled, 

Closed  up  the  narrow  door. 

That  very  hour,  fulfilling  good, 

Miraculous  succour  came, 
And  Prince  Emilius  lived  to  give 

This  worthy  deed  to  fame. 
Oh,  brave  fidelity  in  death  ! 

Oh,  strength  of  loving  will  ! 
These  are  the  holy  balsam  drops 

That  woful  wars  distil. 


P.    J.    BAILEY. 


FESTUS  is  the  title  of  a  very  remarkable 
poem  published  anonymously  by  Pickering1,  in 
1839.  It  is  stated  in  HORNE'S  New  Spirit  of  the 
Age,  that  it  was  written  by  P.  J.  BAILEY,  but  of 
Mr.  BAILEY,  more  than  that  he  wrote  Festus,  I 
know  nothing.  The  poem  attracted  consi- 
derable attention,  on  its  appearance,  but  was 
not  generally  praised.  The  versification  is 
often  careless,  and  the  work  shows  a  want  of 
the  constructive  faculty.  Moreover,  it  is  too 
daring  in  action  and  conclusion.  It  has  scenes 
in  the  unknown  world,  and  its  hero  speaks 


FESTUS  DESCRIBES  HIS  FRIEND. 

HK  had  no  times  of  study,  and  no  place; 
All  places  and  all  times  to  him  were  one. 
His  soul  was  like  the  wind-harp,  which  he  loved, 
And  sounded  only  when  the  spirit  blew, 
Sometime  in  feasts  and  follies,  for  he  went     [rose 
Life-like  through  all  things  ;  and  his  thoughts  then 
Like  sparkles  in  the  bright  wine,  brighter  still, 
Sometimes  in  dreams,  arid  then  the  shining  words 
Would  wake  him  in  the  dark  before  his  face. 
All  things  talk'd  thoughts  to  him.  The  sea  went  mad 
To  show  his  meaning;  and  the  awful  sun 
Thundered  his  thoughts  into  him ;  and  at  night 
The  stars  would  whisper  theirs,  the  moon  sigh  hers, 
He  spake  the  world's  one  tongue;  in  earth  and 

heaven 

There  is  but  one,  it  is  the  word  of  truth. 
To  him  the  eye  let  out  its  hidden  meaning; 
And  young  and  old  made  their  hearts  over  to  him; 
And  thoughts  were  told  to  him  as  unto  none, 
Save  one  who  heareth,  said  and  unsaid,  all.  .  .  . 
All  tilings  were  inspiration  unto  him — 
Wood,  wold,  hill,  field,  sea,  city,  solitude, 
And  crowds,  and  streets,  and  man  where'er  he  was, 
And  the  blue  eye  of  God  which  is  above  us  ; 
Brook-bounded  pine  spinnies,  where  spirits  flit; 
And  haunted  pits  the  rustic  hurries  by, 
Where  cold  wet  ghosts  sit  ringing  jingling  bells  ; 
Old  orchards'  leaf-roofed  aisles,  and  red-cheek'd  load; 
And  the  blood-colour'd  tears  which  yew-trees  weep 
O'er  churchyard  graves,  like  murderers  remorseful ; 
The  dark  green  rings  where  fairies  sit  arid  sup, 
Crushing  the  violet  dew  in  the  acorn  cup  ; 
Where  by  his  new-made  bride  the  bridegroom  sips, 
The  white  moon  shimmering  on  their  longing  lips  ; 
The  large,  o'er-Ioaded,  wealthy-looking  wains 
Quietly  swaggering  home  through  leafy  lanes, 
Leaving  on  all  low  branches,  as  they  come, 
Straws  for  the  birds,  ears  of  the  harvest-home; — 
He  drew  his  light  from  that  he  was  amidst, 


face  to  face  with  Him  whom  no  one  hath  seen 
or  at  any  time  shall  see.  In  some  respects  it 
is  not  unlike  the  Faust  of  GOETHE.  It  is 
not  equal  to  that  wonderful  book;  yet  it 
has  passages  of  deepest  wisdom,  of  power 
and  tenderness,  such  as  few  poets  in  our  day 
have  produced  ;  and  it  will  live. 

In  the  Monthly  Magazine  for  1840  is  an 
additional  scene  to  Festus,  in  which  the 
author  speaks  of  himself  and  his  poem.  The 
first  of  the  following  extracts  is  from  this 
scene. 


As  doth  a  lamp  from  air  which  hath  itself 
Matter  of  light  although  it  show  not.     His 
Was  but  the  power  to  light  what  might  be  lit. 
He  met  a  muse  in  every  lonely  mai<!  ; 
And  learn'd  a  song  from  every  lip  he  loved. 
But  his  heart  ripen'd  most  'neath  southern  eyes, 
Which  sunn'd  their  sweets  into  him  all  day  long, 
For  fortune  call'd  him  southward,  towards  the  sun. 
We  do  not  make  our  thoughts  ;  they  grow  in  us 
Like  grain  in  wood  ;  the  growth  is  of  the  skies, 
Which  are  of  nature,  nature  is  of  God. 
The  world  is  full  of  glorious  likenesses, 
The  poet's  power  is  to  sort  these  out, 
And  to  make  music  from  the  common  strings 
With  which  the  world  is  strung;  to  make  the  dumb 
Earth  utter  heavenly  harmony,  and  draw 
Life  clear  and  sweet  and  harmless  as  spring  water, 
Welling  its  way  through  flowers.     Without  faith, 
Illimitable  faith,  strong  as  a  state's 
In  its  own  might,  in  God,  no  bard  can  be. 
All  things  are  signs  of  other  and  of  nature. 
It  is  at  night  we  see  heaven  moveth,  and 
A  darkness  thick  with  suns ;  the  thoughts  we  think 
Subsist  the  same  in  God,  as  stars  in  heaven, 
And  as  those  specks  of  light  will  prove  great  worlds, 
When  we  approach  them  sometime  free  from  flesh, 
So  too  our  thoughts  will  become  magnified 
To  rnindlike  things  immortal.     And  as  space 
Is  but  a  property  of  God,  wherein 
Is  laid  all  matter,  other  attributes 
May  be  the  infinite  homes  of  mind  and  soul.  .  .  . 
Love,  mirth,  wo,  pleasure,  was  in  turn  his  theme, 
And  the  great  good  which  beauty  does  the  soul, 
And  the  God-made  necessity  of  things. 
Ariel,  like  that  noble  knight  in  olden  tale, 
Who  changed  his  armour's  hue  at  each  fresh  charge 
By  virtue  of  his  lady-love's  strange  ring, 
So  that  none  knew  him  save  his  private  page, 
And  she  who  cried,  God  save  him,  every  time 
He  brake  spears  with  the  brave  till  he  quell'd  all — 
So  he  applied  him  to  all  themes  that  came  ; 

487 


488 


P.    J.    BAILEY. 


Loving  the  most  to  breast  the  rapid  deep, 
Where  others  had   been  drown'd,    and    heeding 

naught 

Where  danger  might  not  fill  the  place  of  fame. 
And  mid  the  magic  circle  of  these  sounds, 
His  lyre  ray'd  out,  spell-bound  himself  he  stood, 
Like  a  still'd  storm.     It  is  no  task  for  suns 
To  shine.     He  knew  himself  a  bard  ordain'd, 
More  than  inspired,  of  God  inspirited, 
Making  himself  like  an  electric  rod 
A  lure  for  lightning  feelings ;  and  his  words 
Felt  like  the  things  which  fall  in  thunder,  which 
The  mind,  when  in  a  dark,  hot,  cloudful  state, 
Doth  make  metallic,  meteoric,  ball-like. 
He  spake  to  spirits  with  a  spirit-tongue, 
Who  carne  compell'd  by  wizard  word  of  truth, 
And  ray'd  them  round  him  from  the  ends  of  heaven  ; 
For,  as  be  all  bards,  he  was  born  of  beauty, 
And  with  a  natural  fitness,  to  draw  down 
All  tones  and  shades  of  beauty  to  his  soul, 
Even  as  the  rainbow  tinted  shell,  which  lies 
Miles  deep  at  bottom  of  the  sea,  hath  all 
Colours  of  skies,  and  flowers,  and  gems,  and  plumes, 
And  all  by  nature,  which  doth  reproduce 
Like  loveliness  in  seeming  opposites. 
Our  life  is  like  the  wizard's  charmed  ring, 
Death's  heads,  and  loathsome  things  fill  up  the 

ground ; 

But  spirits  wing  about,  and  wait  on  us, 
While  yet  the  hour  of  enchantment  is, 
And  while  we  keep  in,  we  are  safe,  and  can 
Force  them  to  do  our  bidding.     And  he  raised 
The  rebel  in  himself,  and  in  his  mind 
Walk'd  with  him  through  the  world. 


ANGELA. 

I  LOVED  her,  for  that  she  was  beautiful, 
And  that  to  me  she  seem'd  to  be  all  nature 
And  all  varieties  of  things  in  one  ; 
Would  set  at  night  in  clouds  of  tears,  and  rise 
All  light  and  laughter  in  the  morning ;  fear 
No  petty  customs  nor  appearances ; 
But  think  what  others  only  dream'd  about; 
And  say  what  others  did  but  think ;  and  do 
What  others  would  but  say  ;  and  glory  in     [me  ; 
What  others  dared  but  do ;  it  was  these  which  won 
And  that  she  never  school'd  within  her  breast 
One  thought  or  feeling,  but  gave  holiday 
To  all ;  and  that  she  told  me  all  her  woes 
And  wrongs  and  ills  ;  and  so  she  made  them  mine 
In  the  communion  of  love  ;  and  we 
Grew  like  each  other,  for  we  loved  each  other ; 
She,  mild  and  generous  as  the  sun  in  spring ; 
And  I,  like  earth,  all  budding  out  with  love. 
The  beautiful  are  never  desolate ; 
For  some  one  alway  loves  them — God  or  man. 
If  man  abandons,  God  Himself  takes  them, 
And  thus  it  was.     She  whom  I  once  loved  died. 
The  lightning  loathes  its  cloud ;  the  soul  its  clay. 
Can  I  forget  that  hand  I  took  in  mine, 
Pale  as  pale  violets ;  that  eye,  where  mind 
And  matter  met  alike  divine  ?     Ah,  no  ! 


May  God  that  moment  judge  me  when  I  do ! 
Oh  !  she  was  fair ;  her  nature  once  all  spring 
And  deadly  beauty  like  a  maiden  sword ; 
Startlingly  beautiful.     I  see  her  now  ! 
Whate'er  thou  art,  thy  soul  is  in  my  mind ; 
Thy  shadow  hourly  lengthens  o'er  my  brain 
And  peoples  all  its  pictures  with  thyself, 
Gone,  not  forgotten ;  pass'd,  not  lost;  thou'lt  shine 
In  heaven  like  a  bright  spot  in  the  sun ! 
She  said  she  wish'd  to  die,  and  so  she  died; 
For,  cloudlike,  she  pour'd  out  her  love,  which  was 
Her  life,  to  freshen  this  parch'd  heart.      It  was 

thus ; 

I  said  we  were  to  part,  but  she  said  nothing ; 
There  was  no  discord  ;  it  was  music  ceased; 
Life's  thrilling,  bursting,  bounding  joy.     She  sate 
Like  a  house-god,  her  hands  fix'd  on  her  knee ; 
And  her  dank  hair  lay  loose  and  long  behind  her, 
Through  which  her  wild  bright  eye  flash'd  like  a 

flint; 

She  spake  not,  moved  not,  but  she  look'd  the  more ; 
As  if  her  eye  were  action,  speech,  and  feeling. 
I  felt  it  all,  and  came  and  knelt  beside  her, 
The  electric  touch  solved  both  our  souls  together; 
Then  comes  the  feeling  which  unmakes,  undoes; 
Which  tears  the  sealike  soul  up  by  the  roots 
And  lashes  it  in  scorn  against  the  skies. 
Twice  did  I  stamp  to  God,  swearing,  hand  clench'd, 
That  not  even  He  nor  death  should  tear  her  from  me. 
It  is  the  saddest  and  the  sorest  night 
One's  own  love  weeping.    But  why  call  on  God  1 
But  that  the  feeling  of  the  boundless  bounds 
All  feeling!  as  the  welkin  doth  the  world. 
It  is  this  which  ones  us  with  the  whole  and  God. 
Then    first    we    wept;    then   closed    and    clung 

together ; 

And  my  heart  shook  this  building  of  my  breast 
Like  a  live  engine  booming  up  and  down. 
She  fell  upon  me  like  a  snow-wreath  thawing. 
Never  were  bliss  and  beauty,  love  and  wo, 
Ravell'd  and  twined  together  into  madness, 
As  in  that  one  wild  hour,  to  which  all  else, 
The  past,  is  but  a  picture.     That  alone 
Is  real,  and  for  ever  there  in  front, 

After  that  I  left  her 

And  only  saw  her  once  again  alive. 


CALMNESS  OF  THE  SUBLIME. 

THE  goodness  of  the  heart  is  shown  in  deeds 
Of  peacefulness  and  kindness.      Hand  and  heart 
Are  one  thing  with  the  good,  as  thou  shouldst  be. 
Do  my  words  trouble  thee  ?     then  treasure  them. 
Pain  overgot  gives  peace,  as  death  doth  Heaven. 
All  things  that  speak  of  Heaven  speak  of  peace. 
Peace  hath  more  might  than  war ;  high  brows  are 

calm ; 
Great  thoughts  are  still  as  stars  ;  and  truths,  like 

suns, 

Stir  not,  but  many  systems  tend  around  them. 
Mind's  step  is  still  as" Death's  ;  and  all  groat  things 
Which  cannot  be  controll'd,  whose  end  is  good. 


P.    J.    BAILEY. 


489 


FAITH. 


FAITH  is  a  higher  faculty  than  reason, 
Though  of  the  brightest  power  of  revelation, 
As  the  snow-peaked  mountain  rises  o'er 
The  lightning,  and  applies  itself  to  heaven, 
We  know  in  daytime  there  are  stars  about  us 
Just  as  at  night,  and  name  them  what  and  wher 
By  sight  of  science  ;  so  by  faith  we  know, 
Although  we  may  not  see  them  till  our  night, 
That  spirits  are  about  us,  and  believe, 
That  to  a  spirit's  eye  all  heaven  may  be 
As  full  of  angels  as  a  beam  of  light 
Of  motes.     As  spiritual,  it  shows  all 
Classes  of  life,  perhaps  above  our  kind, 
Known  to  tradition,  reason,  or  God's  word. 
As  earthly,  it  imbodies  most  the  life 
Of  youth ;  its  powers,  its  aims,  its  deeds,  its  failings  ; 
And  as  a  sketch  of  world-life,  it  begins 
And  ends,  and  rightly,  in  heaven,  and  with  God  ; 
While  heaven  is  also  in  the  midst  thereof. 
God,  or  all  good,  the  evil  of  the  world, 
And  man,  wherein  are  both,  are  each  display'd ; 
The  mortal  is  the  model  of  all  men. 
The  foibles,  follies,  trials,  sufferings 
Of  a  young,  hot,  un-world-school'd  heart,  that  has 
Had  its  own  way  in  life,  and  wherein  all 
:    May  see  some  likeness  of  their  own,  'tis  these 
Attract,  unite,  and,  sunlike,  concentrate 
The  ever-moving  system  of  our  feeling  ; 
Like  life,  too,  as  a  whole,  it  has  a  moral, 
And,  as  in  life,  each  scene  too  has  its  moral, 
A  scene  for  every  year  of  his  young  life, 
Shining  upon  it,  like  the  quiet  moon, 
Illustrating  the  obscure,  unequal  earth  : 
And  though  these  scenes  may  seem  to  careless  eyes 
Irregular  and  rough  and  unconnected, 
Like  to  the  stones  at  Stonehenge,  still  a  use, 
A  meaning,  and  a  purpose  may  be  mark'd 
Among  them  of  a  temple  rear'd  to  God, — . 
It  has  a  plan,  no  plot;  and  life  has  none. 

GREAT  THOUGHTS. 

WHO  can  mistake  great  thoughts  1 
They  seize  upon  the  mind ;  arrest,  and  search, 
And  shake  it ;  bow  the  tall  soul  as  by  wind ; 
Rush  over  it  like  rivers  over  reeds, 
Which  quaver  in  the  current ;  turn  us  cold, 
And  pale,  and  voiceless  ;  leaving  in  the  brain 
A  rocking  and  a  ringing, — glorious, 
But  momentary  ;  madness  might  it  last, 
And  close  the  soul  with  Heaven  as  with  a  seal. 


A  LETTER. 

WHKX  he  hath  had 
A  letter  from  his  lady  dear,  he  bless'd 
The  paper  that  her  hand  had  travell'd  over, 
And  her  eye  look'd  on,  and  would  think  he  saw 
Gleams  of  that  light  she  lavish'd  from  her  eyes, 
Wandering  amid  the  words  of  love  she'd  traced 
Like  glowworms  among  beds  of  flowers.    He  seem'd 
To  bear  with  being  but  because  she  loved  him  ; 
She  was  the  sheath  wherein  his  soul  had  rest,   ' 
As  hath  a  sword  from  war. 
62 


TRUTH  AND    SORROW. 

NIGHT  brings  out  stars  as  sorrow  shows  us  truths ; 
Though  many,  yet  they  help  not ;    bright,  they 

light  not. 

They  are  too  late  to  serve  us ;  and  sad  things 
Are  aye  too  true.     We  never  see  the  stars 
Till  we  can  see  naught  but  them.     So  with  truth. 
And  yet  if  one  would  look  down  a  deep  well, 
Even  at  noon,  we  might  see  these  same  stars', 
Far  fairer  than  the  blinding  blue :  the  truth 
Stars  in  the  water  like  a  dark  bright  eye, 
But  there  are  other  eyes  men  better  love 
Than  truth's,  for  when  we  have  her  she  is  so  cold 
And  proud,  we  know  not  what  to  do  with  her. 
Sometimes  the  thought  comes  swiftening  over  us, 
Like  a  small  bird  winging  the  still  blue  air, 
And  then  again  at  other  times  it  rises 
Slow,  like  a  cloud  which  scales  the  skies  all  breath- 
less, 

And  just  o'erhead  lets  itself  down  on  us. 
Sometimes  we  feel  the  wish  across  the  mind 
Rush,  like  a  rocket  roaring  up  the  sky, 
That  we  should  join  with  God  and  give  the  world 
The  go-by  ;  but  the  world  meantime  turns  round, 
And  peeps  us  in  the  face;  the  wanton  world; 
We  feel  it  gently  pressing  down  our  arm, 
The  arm  we  raised  to  do  for  truth  such  wonders; 
We  feel  it  softly  bearing  on  our  side; 
We  feel  it  touch  and  thrill  us  through  the  body ; 
And  we  are  fools,  and  there  's  an  end  of  us. 


THE  END  OF  LIFE. 

WE  live  in  deeds,  not  years;  in  thoughts,  not 

breaths ; 

In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.     He  most 

lives, 

Who  thinks  most ;  feels  the  noblest ;  acts  the  best. 
And  he  whose  heart  beats  quickest  lives  the  longest: 
Lives  in  one  hour  more  than  in  years  do  some 
Whose  fat  blood  sleeps  as  it  slips  along  their  veins. 
Life  is  but  a  means  unto  an  end ;  that  end, 
Beginning,  mean,  and  end  to  all  things — God. 
The  dead  have  all  the  glory  of  the  world. 


THE  POET. 

THE  bard  must  have  a  kind,  courageous  heart, 
And  natural  chivalry  to  aid  the  weak. 
He  must  believe  the  best  of  every  thing; 
Love  all  below,  arid  worship  all  above. 
All  animals  are  living  hieroglyphs. 
The  dashing  dog,  and  stealthy-stepping  cat, 
[lawk,  bull,  and  all  that  breathe,  mean  something 

more 

To  the  true  eye  than  their  shapes  show ;  for  all 
Were  made  in  love,  and  made  to  be  beloved. 
Thus  must  he  think  as  to  earth's  lower  life, 
Who  seeks  to  win  the  world  to  thought  and  love, 
As  doth  the  bard,  whose  habit  is  all  kindness 
To  every  thing. 


HENRY    ALFORD. 


THIS  gentle,  meditative  poet,  whose  School 
of  the  Heart,  and  other  poems,  were  pub- 
lished at  Cambridge,  in  1835,  is  a  follower  of 
WORDSWORTH.  His  School  of  the  Heart  is 
an  "  Excursion"  in  a  minor  key.  It  is  in  a 
vein  of  high  religious  feeling  and  attachment 
to  the  English  church,  of  which  Mr.  ALFORD 
is  a  clergyman.  It  is  such  poetry  as  GOLD- 


SMITH'S pure-hearted  vicar  would  not  have  ob- 
jected to.  The  dedication  of  these  volumes 
is  :  "  To  the  playmate  of  his  childhood,  the  joy 
of  his  youth,  and  the  dear  companion  of  his  cares 
and  studies,  these  poems  are  dedicated  by  her 
affectionate  husband"  Mr.  ALFORD  has  since 
written  The  Abbot  of  Machelnaye,  published 
by  Pickering. 


A  CHURCHYARD   COLLOQUY. 

STAND  bv  me  here,  beloved,  where  thick  crowd 
On  either  side  the  path  the  headstones  white : 
How  wonderful  is  death — how  passing  thought 
That  nearer  than  yon  glorious  group  of  hills, 
Aye,  but  a  scanty  foot  or  two  beneath 
This  pleasant  sunny  mound,  corruption  teems; — 
And  that  one  sight  of  that  which  is  so  near 
Could  turn  the  current  of  our  joyful  thoughts, 
Which  now  not  e'en  disturbs  them. 

See  this  stone, 

Not,  like  the  rest,  full  of  the  dazzling  noon, 
But  sober  brown — round  which  the  ivy  twines 
Its  searching  tendril,  and  the  yew-tree  shade 
Just  covers  the  short  grave.     He  mourn'd  not  ill 
Who  graved  the  simple  plate  without  a  name  : 
"Tins  grave's  a  cradle,  where  an  infant  Ives, 
Rockt  fasts  asleepe  with  death's  sad  lullabyes." 
And  yet  methinks  he  did  not  care  to  wrong 
The  genius  of  the  place,  when  he  wrote  "  sad  :" 
The  chime  of  hourly  clock, — the  mountain  stream 
That  sends  up  ever  to  thy  resting-place 
Its  gush  of  many  voices — and  the  crow 
Of  matin  cock,  faint  it  may  be  but  shrill, 
From  elm-embosom'd  farms  among  the  dells, — 
These,  little  slumberer,  are  thy  lullabyes : 
Who  would  not  sleep  a  sweet  and  peaceful  sleep, 
Thus  husht  and  sung  to  with  all  pleasant  sounds  1 

And  I  can  stand  beside  thy  cradle,  child, 
And  see  yon  belt  of  clouds  in  silent  pomp 
Midway  the  mountain  sailing  slowly  on, 
Whose  beaconed  top  peers  over  on  the  vale  ; — 
Arid  upward  narrowing  in  thick-timbered  dells 
Dark  solemn  coombs,  with  wooded  buttresses 
Propping  bis  mighty  weight — each  with  its  stream, 
Now  leaping  sportfully  from  crag  to  crag, 
Now  smooth'd  in  clear  black  pools;  then  in  thevales, 
Through  lanes  of  bovvering  foliage  glittering  on, 
By  cots  and  farms  and  quiet  villages 
Andmeadowsbrightestgreen.  Who  would  not  sleep, 
Rock'd  in  so  fair  a  cradle  ? 

But  that  word, 

That  one  word — "death,"  comes  over  my  sick  brain 
Wrapping  my  vision  in  a  sudden  swoon  : 
Blotting  the  gorgeous  pomp  of  sun  and  shade, 
Mountain  and  wooded  cliff,  and  sparkling  stream, 
400 


In  a  thick  dazzling  darkness. — Who  art  thou 
Under  this  hillock  on  the  mountain  side  1 
I  love  the  like  of  thee  with  a  deep  love, 
And  therefore  call'd  thee  dear — thee  who  art  now 
A  handful  of  dull  earth.     No  lullabyes 
Hearest  thou  now,  be  they  or  sweet  or  sad — 
Not  revelry  of  streams,  nor  pomp  of  clouds  ; 
Not  the  blue  top  of  mountain — nor  the  woods 
That  clothe  the  steeps,  have  any  joy  for  thee. 

Go  to,  then — tell  me  not  of  balmiest  rest 
In  fairest  cradle — for  I  never  felt 
One  half  so  keenly  as  I  feel  it  now, 
That  not  the  promise  of  the  sweetest  sleep 
Can  make  me  smile  on  death.    Our  days  and  years 
Pass  onward — and  the  mighty  of  old  time 
Have  put  their  glory  by,  and  laid  them  down 
Undrest  of  all  the  attributes  they  wore, 
In  the  dark  sepulchre — strange  preference 
To  fly  from  beds  of  down  and  softest  strains 
Of  timbrel  and  of  pipe,  to  the  cold  earth, 
The  silent  chamber  of  unknown  decay  : 
To  yield  the  delicate  flesh,  so  loved  of  late 
By  the  informing  spirit,  to  the  maw 
Of  unrelenting  waste;  to  go  abroad 
From  the  sweet  prison  of  this  moulded  clay, 
Into  the  pathless  air,  among  the  vast 
And  unnamed  multitude  of  trembling  stars; 
Strange  journey,  to  attempt  the  void  unknown 
From  whence  no  news  returns ;  and  cast  the  freight 
Of  nicely  treasured  life  at  once  away. 

Come,  let  us  talk  of  death — and  sweetly  play 
With  his  black  locks,  and  listen  for  a  while 
To  the  lone  music  of  the  passing  wind 
In  the  rank  grass  that  waves  above  his  bed. 

Is  it  not  wonderful,  the  darkest  day 
Of  all  the  days  of  life — the  hardest  wrench 
That  tries  the  coward  sense,  should  mix  itself 
In  all  our  gentlest  and  most  joyous  moods, 
A  not  unwelcome  visitant — that  thought, 
In  her  quaint,  wanderings,  may  not  reach  a  spot 
Of  lavish  beauty,  but  the  spectre  form 
Meets  her  with  greeting,  and  she  gives  herself 
To  his  mysterious  converse]      I  have  roam'd 
Through  many  mazes  of  unregistered 
And  undetermined  fancv  ;  arid  I  know 
That  when  the  air  grows  balmy  to  my  fee! 
And  rarer  light  falls  on  me,  and  sweet  sounds 


HENRY    ALFORD. 


491 


Dance  tremulously  round  my  captive  ears, 

I  soon  shall  stumble  on  some  mounded  grave ; 

And  ever  of  the  thoughts  that  stay  with  me, 

(There  are  that  flit  away)  the  pleasantest 

Is  hand  in  hand  with  death  :   and  my  bright  hopes, 

Like  the  strange  colours  of  divided  light, 

Fade  into  pale  uncertain  violet 

About  some  hallow'd  precinct.     Can  it  be 

That  there  are  blessed  memories  join'd  with  death. 

Of  those  who  parted  peacefully,  and  words 

That  cling  about  our  hearts,  utter'd  between 

The  day  and  darkness,  in  Life's  twilight  time  1 


ACADEME. 

BEFORE  the  day  the  gleaming  dawn  doth  flee: — 

All  yesternight  I  had  a  dreary  dream  ; 

Methought  I  walk'd  in  desert  Academe 

Among  fallen  pillars — and  there  came  to  me, 

All  in  a  dim  half-twilight  silently, 

A  very  sad  old  man — his  eyes  were  red 

With  over-weeping — and  he  cried  and  said 

"  The  light  hath  risen  but  shineth  not  on  me." 

Beautiful  Athens,  all  thy  loveliness 

Is  like  the  scarce  remember'd  burst  of  spring 

When  now  the  summer  in  her  party  dress 

Hath  clothed  the  woods,  and  fill'd  each  living  thing 

With  ripest  joy — because  upon  our  time 

Hath  risen  the  noon,  and  thou  wert  in  thy  prime. 


A  MEMORY. 

THE  sweetest  flower  that  ever  saw  the  light, 
The  smoothest  stream  that  ever  wander'd  by, 
The  fairest  star  upon  the  brow  of  night, 
Joying  and  sparkling  from  his  sphere  on  high, 
The  softest  glances  of  the  stockdove's  eye, 
The  lily  pure,  the  man-bud  gold-bright, 
The  gush'  of  song  that  floodeth  all  the  sky 
From  the  dear  flutterer  mounted  out  of  sight, — 
Are  not  so  pleasure-stirring  to  the  thought, 
Not  to  the  wounded  soul  so  full  of  halm, 
As  one  frail  glimpse,  by  painful  straining  caught 
Along  the  past's  deep  mist-enfolded  calm, 
Of  that  sweet  face,  not  visibly  defined, 
But  rising  clearly  on  the  inner  mind. 


A  FUNERAL. 

SLOWLY  and  softly  let  the  music  go, 
As  ye  wind  upwards  to  the  gray  church  tower; 
Check  the  shrill  hautboy,  let  the  pipe  breathe  low- 
Tread  lightly  on  the  pathside  daisy  flower. 
For  she  ye  carry  was  a  gentle  bud, 
Loved  by  the  unsunn'd  drops  of  silver  dew; 
Her  voice  was  like  the  whisper  of  the  wood 
In  prime  of  even,  when  the  stars  are  few. 
Lay  her  all  gently  in  the  flowerful  mould, 
Weep  with  her  one  brief  hour ;  then  turn  nway, — 
Go  to  hope's  prison, — arid  from  out  the  cold 
And  solitary  gratings  many  a  day 
Look  forth:   'tis  said  the  world  is  growing  old, — 
And  streaks  of  orient  light  in  [rime's horizon  |>I.>v 


"THE  MASTER  IS  COME,  AND    CALL- 
ETH  FOR   THEE." 

RISE,  said  the  Master,  come  unto  the  feast : — 

She  heard  the  call,  and  rose  with  willing  feet: 

But  thinking  it  not  otherwise  than  meet 

For  such  a  bidding  to  put  on  her  best, 

She  is  gone  from  us  for  a  few  short  hours 

Into  her  bridal  closet,  there  to  wait 

For  the  unfolding  of  the  palace  gate 

That  gives  her  entrance  to  the  blissful  bowers. 

We  have  not  seen  her  yet ;  though  we  have  been 

Full  often  to  her  chamber  door,  and  oft 

Have  listen'd  underneath  the  postern  green, 

And  laid  fresh  flowers,  and  whisper'd  short  and  soft: 

But  she  hath  made  no  answer,  and  the  day 

From  the  clear  west  is  fading  fast  away. 


BEAUTY  OF   NATURE. 

OFT  have  I  listen'd  to  a  voice  that  spake 
Of  cold  and  dullrealities  of  life. 
Deem  we  not  thus  of  life  :  for  we  may  fetch 
Light  from  a  hidden  glory,  which  shall  clothe 
The  meanest  thing  that  is  with  hues  of  heaven. 
If  thence  we  draw  not  glory,  all  our  light 
Is  but  a  taper  in  a  chamber' d  cave, 
That  giveth  presence  to  new  gulfs  of  dark. 
Our  light  should  be  the  broad  and  open  day; 
And  as  we  lose  its  shining,  we  shall  look 
Still  on  the  bright  and  daylight  face  of  things. 

Is  it  for  nothing  that  the  mighty  sun 
Rises  each  morning  from  the  Eastern  plain 
Over  the  meadows  fresh  with  hoary  dew  1 
Is  it  for  nothing  that  the  shadowy  trees 
On  yonder  hill-top,  in  the  summer  night 
Stand  darkly  out  before  the  golden  moon  ? 
Is  it  for  nothing  that  the  autumn  boughs 
Hang    thick   with   mellow    fruit,   what  time  the 

swain 

Presses  the  luscious  juice,  and  joyful  shouts 
Rise  in  the  purple  twilight,  gladdening  him 
Who  labour'd  late,  and  homeward  wends  his  way 
Over  the  ridgy  grounds,  and  through  the  mead, 
Where  the  mist  broods  along  the  fringed  stream? 
Far  in  the  Western  sea  dim  islands  float, 
And  lines  of  mountain  coast  receive  the  sun 
As  he  sinks  downward  to  his  resting-place, 
Minister'd  to  by  bright  and  crimson  clouds — 
Is  it  for  nothing  that  some  artist  hand 
Hath  wrought  together  things  so  beautiful  1 
Noon  follows  morn,  the  quiet  breeze-less  noon  : 
And  pleasant  even,  season  of  sweet  sounds 
And    peaceful    sights — and    then   the    wondrous 

bird 

That  warbles  like  an  angel,  full  of  love, 
From  copse  and  hedgerow  side  pouring  abroad 
Her  tide  of  song  into  the  listening  night. 
Beautiful  is  the  last  gleam  of  the  sun 
Slanted  through  twining  branches:  beautiful 
The  birth  of  the  fnint  stars — first  clear  and  pale 
The  steady-lustred  Hesper,  like  a  gem 


492 


HENRY    ALFORD. 


On  the  flush'd  bosom  of  the  West ;  and  then 
Some  princely  fountain  of  unborrow'd  light, 
Arcturus,  or  the  Dogstai-,  or  the  seven 
That  circle  without  setting  round  the  pole. 
Is  it  for  nothing  at  the  midnight  hour, 
That  solemn  silence  sways  the  hemisphere, 
And  ye  must  listen  long  before  ye  hear 
The  cry  of  beasts,  or  fall  of  distant  stream, 
Or  breeze  among  the  tree-tops — while  the  stars 
Like  guardian  spirits  watch  the  slumbering  earth? 


A  SPIRITUAL  AND  WELL-ORDERED 
MIND 

As  on  the  front 

Of  some  cathedral  pile,  ranged  orderly, 
Rich  tabernacles  throng  of  sainted  men, 
Each  in  his  highday  robes  magnificent, 
Some  tipp'd  with  crowns,  the  church's  nursing  sires, 
And  some,  the  hallow'd  temple's  serving-men, 
With  crosiers  deep  emboss'd,  and  comely  staves 
Resting  aslant  upon  their  reverend  form, 
Guarding  the  entrance  well ;  while  round  the  walls, 
And  in  the  corbels  of  the  massy  nave, 
All  circumstances  of  living  child  and  man 
And  heavenly  influence,  in  parables 
Of  daily  passing  forms  is  pictured  forth  : 
So  all  the  beautiful  and  seemly  things 
That  crowd  the  earth,  within  the  humble  soul 
Have  place  and  order  due ;  because  there  dwells 
In  the  inner  temple  of  the  holy  heart 
The  presence  of-  the  spirit  form  above  : 
There  are  his  tabernacles ;  there  his  rites 
Want  not  their  due  performance,  nor  sweet  strains 
Of  heavenly  music,  nor  a  daily  throng 
Of  worshippers,  both  those  who  minister 
In  service  fix'd — the  mighty  principles 
And  leading  governors  of  thought ;  and  those 
Who  come  and  go,  the  troop  of  fleeting  joys — 
All  hopes,  all  sorrows,  all  that  enter  in 
Through  every  broad  receptacle  of  sense. 


HYMN  FOR  ALL-SAINTS  DAY  IN  THE 
MORNING. 


up  before  your  God 

You  army  bold  and  bright, 
Saints,  martyrs,  and  confessors, 

In  your  robes  of  white  ; 
The  church  below  doth  challenge  you 

To  an  act  of  praise  ; 
Ready  with  mirth  in  all  the  earth 

Her  matin  song  to  raise. 

Stand  up  before  your  God 

In  beautiful  array, 
Make  ready  all  your  instruments 

The  while  we  mourn  and  pray  ; 
For  we  must  stay  to  mourn  and  pray 

Some  prelude  to  our  song  ; 
The  fear  of  death  has  clogg'd  our  breath 

And  our  foes  are  swift  and  strong. 


But  ye  before  your  God 

Are  hushed  from  all  alarm, 
Out  through  the  grave  and  gate  of  death 

Ye  have  past  into  the  cairn  ; 
Your  fight  is  done,  your  victory  won, 

Through  peril,  and  toil,  and  blood ; 
Among  the  slain  on  the  battle  plain 

We  buried  ye  where  ye  stood. 

Stand  up  before  your  God, 

Although  we  cannot  hear 
The  new  song  he  hath  taught  you 

With  our  fleshly  ear ; 
Our  bosoms  burn  that  hymn  to  learn, 

And  from  the  church  below 
E'en  while  we  sing,  on  heavenward  wing 

Some  happy  souls  shall  go. 

Ye  stand  before  your  God, 

But  we  press  onward  still, 
The  soldiers  of  his  army, 

The  servants  of  his  will : 
A  captive  band  in  foreign  land 

Long  ages  we  have  been  ; 
But  our  dearest  theme  and  our  fondest  dream 

Is  the  home  we  have  not  seen. 

We  soon  shall  meet  our  God, 

The  hour  is  wafting  on, 
The  day-spring  from  on  high  hath  risen, 

And  the  night  is  spent  and  gone ; 
The  light  of  earth  it  had  its  birth 

And  it  shall  have  its  doom ; 
The  sons  of  earth  they  are  few  in  birth, 

But  many  in  the  tomb. 


A  DOUBT. 

I  KXOW  not  how  the  right  may  be  : — 
But  I  give  thanks  whene'er  I  see 
Down  in  the  green  slopes  of  the  West 
Old  Glastonbury's  tower'd  crest. 
I  know  not  how  the  right  may  be : — 
But  I  have  oft  had  joy  to  see, 
By  play  of  chance,  my  road  beside, 
The  cross  on  which  the  Saviour  died. 
I  know  not  how  the  right  may  be : — 
But  I  loved  once  a  tall  elm  tree, 
Because  between  its  boughs  on  high 
That  cross  was  open'd  in  the  sky. 
I  know  not  how  the  right  may  be  : — 
But  I  have  shed  strange  tears  to  see, 
Passing  an  unknown  town  at  night, 
In  some  warm  chambers  full  of  light, 
A  mother  and  two  children  fair 
Kneeling  with  lifted  hands  at  prayer. 
I  know  not  how  it  is — my  boast 
Of  Reason  seems  to  dwindle  down  ; 
And  my  mind  seems  down-argued  most 
By  freed  conclusions  not  her  own. 
I  know  not  how  it  is — unless 
Weakness  nnd  strength  are  near  allied  ; 
And  joys  which  most  the  spirit  Moss 
Are  farthest  oft"  from  earthly  pride. 


ELIZA     COOK. 


•JBuzA  COOK  has  been  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  English  literary  periodicals  for  several 
years,  and  her  productions  have  been  very 
generally  reprinted  in  the  gazettes  of  this 
country,  so  that  her  name  is  nearly  as  familiar 
to  American  readers  as  those  of  Mrs.  HEM\NS 
and  Mrs.  NORTON.  Her  poems  are  of  that 
class  which  is  most  sure  to  win  the  popular 
favour.  They  have  a  social  character,  and 
portray  with  simplicity  and  truth,  the  kindly  I 

THE  MOURNERS. 

Kn?fG  Death  sped  forth  in  his  dreaded  power 

To  make  the  most  of  his  tyrant  hour ; 

And  the  first  he  took  was  a  white-robed  girl, 

With  the  orange  bloom  twined  in  each  glossy  curl, 

Her  fond  betrothed  hung  over  the  bier, 

Bathing  her  shroud  with  the  gushing  tear : 

He  madly  raved,  he  shriek'd  his  pain, 

With  frantic  speech  and  burning  brain.         [gone. 

"  There 's  no  joy,"  cried  he,  «  now  my  dearest  is 

Take,  take  me,  Death ;  for  I  cannot  live  on  !" 

The  sire  was  robb'd  of  his  eldest  born, 
And  he  bitterly  bled  while  the  branch  was  torn : 
Other  scions  were  round,  as  good  and  fair, 
But  none  seem'd  so  bright  as  the  breathless  heir. 
"  My  hopes  are  crush'd,"  was  the  father's  cry ; 
"  Since  my  darling  is  lost,  I,  too,  would  die." 
The  valued  friend  was  snatch' d  away, 
Bound  to  another  from  childhood's  day ; 
And  the  one  that  was  left  exclaim'd  in  despair, 
"  Oh  !  he  sleeps  in  the  tomb — let  me  follow  him 
there  !" 

A  mother  was  taken,  whose  constant  love 
Had  nestled  her  child  like  a  fair  young  dove  ; 
And  the  heart  of  that  child  to  the  mother  had  grown, 
Like  the  ivy  to  oak,  or  the  moss  to  the  stone : 
Nor  loud  nor  wild  was  the  burst  of  wo, 
But  the  tide  of  anguish  ran  strong  below ; 
And  the  reft  one  turn'd  from  all  that  was  light, 
From  the  flowers  of  day  and  the  stars  of  night ; 
Breathing  where  none  might  hear  or  see — 
"  Where  thou  art,  my  mother,  thy  child  would  be." 

Death  smiled  as  he  heard  each  earnest  word  : 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  he,  "be  this  work  deferr'd ; 

I'll  see  thee  again  in  a  fleeting  year, 

And,  if  grief  and  devotion  live  on  sincere, 

I  promise  then  thou  shalt  share  the  rest 

Of  the  being  now  pluck'd  from  thy  doating  breast ; 

Then,  if  thou  cravest  the  coffin  and  pall 

As  thou  dost  this  moment,  my  spear  shall  fall." 

And  Death  fled  till  Time  on  his  rapid  wing 

Gave  the  hour  that  brought  back  the  skeleton  king. 


affections.  They  are  free,  spirited,  animated 
by  a  generous,  joyous  feeling,  yet  feminine, 
quiet,  tranquillizing. 

Miss  COOK  is  now  about  twenty-five  years 
of  age.  She  resides  in  London.  The  largest 
collection  of  her  writings,  "  Melaia,  and  other 
Poems,"  was  published  by  Tilt,  in  1840,  and 
has  been  reprinted  in  the  present  year,  by 
Langley,  of  New  York,  in  a  very  elegant 
edition. 


But  the  lover  was  ardently  wooing  again, 
Kneeling  in  serfdom,  and  proud  of  his  chain  ; 
He  had  found  an  idol  to  adore, 
Rarer  than  that  he  had  worshipp'd  before  : 
His  step  was  gay,  his  laugh  was  loud, 
As  he  led  the  way  for  the  bridal  crowd ; 
And  his  eyes  still  kept  their  joyous  ray,  [lay- 

Though  he  went  by  the  grave  where  his  first  love 
"  Ha  !  ha  !"  shouted  Death,  "  'tis  passing  clear 
That  I  am  a  guest  not  wanted  here  !" 
The  father  was  seen  in  his  children's  games, 
Kissing  their  flush'd  brows  and  blessing  their  names! 
And  his  eye  grew  bright  as  he  mark'd  the  charms 
Of  the  boy  at  his  knee  and  the  girl  in  his  arms  : 
His  voice  rung  out  in  the  merry  noise, 
He  was  first  in  all  their  hopes  and  joys  ; 
He  ruled  their  sports  in  the  setting  sun, 
Nor  gave  a  thought  to  the  missing  one. 
"  Are  ye  ready  1"  cried  Death,  as  he  raised  his  dart. 
"Nay!    nay!"    shriek'd  the  father;  "in  mercy 
depart !" 

The  friend -again  was  quaffing  the  bowl, 

Warmly  pledging  his  faith  and  soul ; 

His  bosom  cherish'd  with  glowing  pride 

A  stranger  form  that  sat  by  his  side ; 

His  hand  the  hand  of  that  stranger  press'd  ; 

He  praised  his  song,  he  echo'd  his  jest; 

And  the  mirth  and  wit  of  that  new-found  mate 

Made  a  blank  of  the  name  so  prized  of  late. 

"  See  !  see  !"  cried  Death,  as  he  hurried  past, 

"  How  bravely  the  bonds  of  friendship  last !" 

But  the  orphan  child  !     Oh,  where  was  she? 

With  clasping  hands  and  bended  knee, 

All  alone  on  the  churchyard's  sod, 

Mingling  the  names  of  mother  and  God. 

Her  dark  and  sunken  eye  was  hid, 

Fast  weeping  beneath  the  swollen  lid  ; 

Her  sigh  was  heavy,  her  forehead  was  chill, 

Betraying  the  wound  was  unheal'd  still ; 

Arid  her  smother'd  prayer  was  yet  heard  to  crave 

A  speedy  home  in  the  self-same  grave. 

Hers  was  the  love  all  holy  and  strong ; 
Hers  was  the  sorrow  fervent  and  long  ; 

2  T  493 


494 


ELIZA    COOK. 


Hers  was  the  spirit  whose  light  was  shed 

As  an  incense  lire  above  the  dead. 

Death  linger'd  there,  and  paused  awhile ; 

But  she  beckon'd  him  on  with  a  welcoming  smile. 

<'  There 's  a  solace,"  cried  she,  «  for  all  others  to  find, 

But  a  mother  leaves  no  equal  behind." 

And  the  kindest  blow  Death  ever  gave 

Laid  the  mourning  child  in  the  parent's  grave. 


THE  WREATHS. 

WHOM  do  we  crown  with  the  laurel  leaf  1 

The  hero  god,  the  soldier  chief, 

But  we  dream  of  the  crushing  cannon-wheel, 

Of  the  flying  shot  and  the  reeking  steel, 

Of  the  crimson  plain  where  warm  blood  smokes, 

Where  clangour  deafens  and  sulphur  chokes  : 

Oh,  who  can  love  the  laurel  wreath, 

Pluck'd  from  the  gory  field  of  death  1 

Whom  do  we  crown  with  summer  flowers  ] 
The  young  and  fair  in  their  happiest  hours. 
But  the  buds  will  only  live  in  the  light 
Of  a  festive  day  or  a  glittering  night ; 
We  know  the  vermil  tints  will  fade — 
That  pleasure  dies  with  the  bloomy  braid  : 
And  who  can  prize  the  coronal 
That's  form'd  to  dazzle,  wither  and  fall  1 

Who  wears  the  cypress,  dark  and  drear  ] 
The  one  who  is  shedding  the  mourner's  tear  : 
The  gloomy  branch  for  ever  twines 
Round  foreheads  graved  with  sorrow's  lines. 
'Tis  the  type  of  a  sad  and  lonely  heart, 
That  hath  seen  its  dearest  hopes  depart. 
Oh,  who  can  like  the  chaplct  band 
That  is  wove  by  melancholy's  hand  1 

Where  is  the  ivy  circlet  found  ? 

On  the  one  whose  brain  and  lips  are  drown'd 

In  the  purple  stream — who  drinks  and  laughs 

Till  his  cheeks  outflush  the  wine  he  quaffs. 

Oh,  glossy  and  rich  is  the  ivy  crown, 

With  its  gems  of  grape-juice  trickling  down  ; 

But,  bright  as  it  seems  o'er  the  glass  and  bowl 

It  has  stain  for  the  heart  and  shade  for  the  soul 

But  there's  a  green  and  fragrant  leaf 
Betokens  nor  revelry,  blood,  nor  grief: 
'Tis  the  purest  amaranth  springing  below, 
And  rests  on  the  calmest,  noblest  brow  : 
It  is  not  the  right  of  the  monarch  or  lord, 
Nor  purchased  by  gold,  nor  won  by  the  sword ; 
For  the  lowliest  temples  gather  a  ray 
Of  quenchless  light  from  the  palm  of  bay. 

Oh,  beautiful  bay  !  I  worship  thee — 
I  homage  thy  wreath — T  cherish  thy  tree  ; 
And  of  all  the  chaplets  fame  may  deal, 
'Tis  only  to  this  one  I  would  kneel  : 
For  as  Indians  fly  to  the  banian  branch, 
When  tempests  lower  and  thunders  launch, 
So  the  spirit  may  turn  from  crowds  and  strife 
And  seek  from  the  bay-wreath  joy  and  life. 


HE  LED  HER  TO  THE  ALTAR. 

HE  led  her  to  the  altar, 

But  the  bride  was  not  his  chosen  : 
He  led  her,  with  a  hand  as  cold 

As  though  its  pulse  had  frozen. 
Flowers  were  crush  d  beneath  his  tread, 

A  gilded  dome  was  o'er  him  ; 
But.  his  brow  was  damp,  and  his  lips  were  pale, 

As  the  marble  steps  before  him. 

His  soul  was  sadly  dreaming 

Of  one  he  had  hoped  to  cherish; 
Of  a  name  and  form  that  the  sacred  rites, 

Beginning,  told  must  perish. 
He  gazed  not  on  the  stars  and  gems 

Of  those  who  circled  round  him; 
But  trembled  as  his  lips  gave  forth 

The  words  that  falsely  bound  him. 

Many  a  voice  was  praising. 

Many  a  hand  was  prolter'd  ; 
But  mournfully  he  turn'd  him 

From  the  greeting  that  was  offer'd. 
Despair  had  fi.v'd  upon  his  brow 

Its  deepest,  saddest  token  ; 
And  the  bloodless  cheek,  the  stifled  sigh, 

Betray 'd  his  heart  was  broken. 


A   LOVE   SONG. 

DEAR  Kate,  I  do  not  swear  and  rave, 

Or  sigh  sweet  things  as  many  can  ; 
But  though  my  lip  ne'er  plays  the  slave, 

My  heart  will  not  disgrace  the  man. 
I  prize  thee — ay,  my  bonnie  Kate, 

So  firmly  fond  this  breast  can  be, 
That  I  would  brook  the  sternest  fate 

If  it  but  left  me  health  and  thee. 

I  do  not  promise  that  our  life 

Shall  know  no  shade  on  heart  or  brow  ; 
For  human  lot  and  mortal  strife 

Would  mock  the  falsehood  of  such  vow. 
But  when  the  clouds  of  pain  and  care 

Shall  teach  us  we  are  not  divine, 
My  deepest  sorrows  thou  shalt  share, 

And  I  will  strive  to  lighten  thine. 

We  love  each  other,  yet  perchance 

The  murmurs  of  dissent  may  rise; 
Fierce  words  may  chase  the  tender  glance, 

And  angry  flashes  light  our  eyes. 
But  we  must  learn  to  check  the  frown, 

To  reason  rather  than  to  blame ; 
The  wisest,  have  their  faults  to  own, 

And  you  and  I,  girl,  have  the  same. 

You  must  not  like  me  less,  my  Kate, 

For  such  an  hone:  1  strain  as  this; 
I  love  tlifr  dearly,  but  I  hate 

The  puling  rhymes  of  "  kiss"  and  "bliss." 
There's  truth  in  all  I've  said  or  sung; 

I  woo  thee  as  a  man  sliniild  woo ; 
And  though  I  lack  a  honey 'd  tongue, 

Thou 'It  never  find  a  breast  more  true. 


ELIZA    COOK. 


495 


THE  FREE. 

THE  wild  streams  leap  with  headlong  sweep 
In  their  curbless  course  o'er  the  mountain  steep ; 
All  fresh  and  strong  they  foam  along, 
Waking  the  rocks  with  their  cataract  song. 
My  eye  bears  a  glance  like  the  beam  on  a  lance, 
While  I  watch  the  waters  dash  and  dance ; 
I  burn  with  glee,  for  I  love  to  see 
The  path  of  any  thing  that 's  free. 

The  skylark  springs  with  dew  on  his  wings, 

And  up  in  the  arch  of  heaven  he  sings 

Trill-la— trill-la,  oh,  sweeter  far 

Than  the  notes  that  come  through  a  golden  bar. 

The  joyous  bay  of  a  hound  at  play, 

The  caw  of  a  rook  on  its  homeward  way — 

Oh  !  these  shall  be  the  music  for  me, 

For  I  love  the  voices  of  the  free. 

The  deer  starts  by  with  his  antlers  high, 
Proudly  tossing  his  head  to  the  sky  ; 
The  barb  runs  the  plain  unbroke  by  the  rein, 
With  streaming  nostrils  and  flying  mane ; 
The  clouds  are  stirr'd  by  the  eaglet  bird, 
As  the  flap  of  its  swooping  pinion  is  heard. 
Oh  !   these  shall  be  the  creatures  for  me, 
For  my  soul  was  form'd  to  love  the  free. 

The  mariner  brave,  in  his  bark  on  the  wave, 
May  laugh  at  the  walls  round  a  kingly  slave ; 
And  the  one  whose  lot  is  the  desert  spot 
Has  no  dread  of  an  envious  foe  in  his  cot. 
The  tli rail  and  state  at  the  palace  gate 
Are  what  my  spirit  has  learnt  to  hate : 
Oh  !   the  hills  shall  be  a  home  for  me, 
For  I'd  leave  a  throne  for  the  hut  of  the  free. 


THE  OLD  ARM-CHAIR. 

I  LOVE  it,  I  love  it;  and  who  shall  dare 
To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair  ? 
I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize,       [sighs; 
I've  bedew'd  it  with  tears,  and  cmbalm'd  it  with 
'T  is  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart; 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 
Would  ye  learn  the  spell  ]  a  mother  sat  there, 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  linger'd  near 

The  hallow'd  seat  with  listening  ear; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give, 

To  fit  me  to  die  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  sharne  would  never  betide, 

With  truth  for  mv  creed  and  God  for  my  guide; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  rny  earliest  prayer, 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  watch'd  her  many  a  day, 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were  gray  ; 

An  1  I  idmo.-sl  worshipp'd  her  when  she  smiled 

And  turn'd  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 

YY:n--:  roll'd  on,  but  the  List  one  sped — 

My  idol  was  shattor'd,  my  earth-star  fled; 

I  Irarnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 

When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 


'Tis  past!  'tis  past!   but  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow  : 
'Twos  there  she  nursed  me,  'twas  there  she  died ; 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 
While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my  cheek  ; 
But  I  love  it,  I  love  it,  and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 


MY  GRAVE. 

SWEET  is  the  ocean  grave,  under  the  azure  wave, 
Where  the  rich  coral  the  sea-grot  illumes; 

Where  pearls  and  amber  meet,  decking  the  wind- 
ing-sheet, 
Making  the  sailor's  the  brightest  of  tombs. 

Let  the  proud  soldier  rest,  wrapt  in  his  gory  vest, 
Where  he  may  happen  to  fall  on  his  shield, 

To  sink  in  the  glory-strife  was  his  first  hope  in  life ; 
Dig  him  his  grave  on  the  red  battle-field. 

Lay  the  one  great  and  rich  in  the  strong  cloister 
Give  him  his  coffin  of  cedar  and  gold  ;  [niche, 

Let  the  wild  torch-light  fall,  flouting  the  velvet  pall, 
Lock  him  in  marble  vault,  darksome  and  cold. 

But  there's  a  sunny  hill,  fondly  remember'd  still, 
Crown'd  with  fair  grass  and  a  bonnie  elm  tree : 

Fresh  as  the  foamy  surf,  sacred  as  churchyard  turf, 
There  be  the  resting-place  chosen  by  me ! 

Though  the  long  formal  prayer  ne'er  has  been  ut- 
ter'd  there, 

Though  the  robed  priest  has  not  hallow'd  the  sod; 
Yet  would  I  dare  to  ask  any  in  saintly  mask 

"  Where  is  the  spot  that 's  unwatch'd  by  a  God  !" 

There  the  wind  loud  and  strong  whistles  its  winter 

song, 

Shrill  in  its  wailing  and  fierce  in  its  sweep  ; 
'T  is  music  now  sweet  and  dear,  loved  by  my  soul 

and  ear  ; 
Let  it  breathe  on  where  I  sleep  the  last  sleep. 

There  in  the  summer  days  rest  the  bright  flashing 
rays, 

There  spring  the  wild-flowers — fair  as  can  be  : 
Daisy  and  pimpernel,  lily  and  cowslip  bell, 

These  be  the  grave-flowers  chosen  by  me. 

There  would  I  lie  alone,  mark'd  by  no  sculptured 

stone. 

Few  will  regret  when  my  spirit  departs; 
And  I  loathe  the  vain  charnel  fame,  praising  an 

empty  name, 
Dear,  after  all,  but  to  two  or  three  hearts. 

Who  does  not  turn  and  laugh  at  the  false  epitaph, 
Painting  man  spotless  and  pure  as  the  dove  ] 

If  aught  of  goodly  worth  grace  my  career  on  earth, 
All  that  I  heed  is  its  record  above. 

'Tis  on  that  sunny  hill,  fondly  remember'd  still, 
Where  my  young  footsteps  climb'd  happv  and 
free; 

Fresh  as  the  foamy  surf,  sacred  as  churchyard  turf, 
There  be  the  sleeping-place  chosen  by  me. 


496 


ELIZA    COOK. 


THERE'S  A  STAR  IN  THE  WEST. 

TH RUE'S  a  star  in  the  west  that  shall  never  go  down 

Till  the  records  of  valour  decay  ; 
We  must  worship  its  light,  though  it  is  not  our  own, 

For  liberty  burst  in  its  ray. 
Shall  the  name  of  a  Washington  ever  be  heard 

By  a  freeman,  and  thrill  not  his  breast] 
Is  there  one  out  of  bondage  that  hails  not  the  word 

As  the  Bethlehem  star  of  the  west? 

«  War,  war  to  the  knife !  be  enthrall'd  or  ye  die," 

Was  the  echo  that  woke  in  his  land  ; 
But  it  was  not  his  voice  that  promoted  the  cry, 

Nor  his  madness  that  kindled  the  brand. 
He  raised  not  his  arm,  he  defied  not  his  foes, 

While  a  loaf  of  the  olive  remain'd  ; 
Till  goaded  with  insult,  his  spirit  arose 

Like  a  long-baited  lion  unchain'd. 

He  struck  with  firm  courage  the  blow  of  the  brave, 

But  sigh'd  o'er  the  carnage  that  spread  : 
He  indignantly  trampled  the  yoke  of  the  slave, 

But  wept  for  the  thousands  that  blt'd.        [strife, 
Though  he  threw  back  the  fetters  and  headed  the 

Till  man's  charter  was  fairly  restored  ;          [life 
Yet  he  pray'd  for  the  moment  when  freedom  and 

Would  no  longer  be  press'd  by  the  sword. 

Oh!  his  laurels  were  pure;  and  his  patriot  name 

In  the  page  of  the  future  shall  dwell, 
And  be  seen  in  all  annals,  the  foremost  in  fame, 

By  the  side  of  a  Hofer  and  Tell. 
Revile  not  my  song,  for  the  wise  and  the  good 

Among  Britons  have  nobly  confess'd 
That  his  was  the  glory  and  ours  was  the  blood 

Of  the  deeply-stain'd  field  of  the  west. 


MOURN  NOT  THE   DEAD. 

Mounx  not  the  dead, — shed  not  a  tear 
Above  the  moss-stain'd  sculptured  stone, 

And  weep  for  those  whose  living  woes 
Still  yield  the  bitter,  rending  groan. 

Grieve  not  to  see  the  eyelids  close 
In  rest  that  has  not  fever' d  start; 

Wish  not  to  break  the  deep  repose 

That  curtains  round  the  pulseless  heart. 

But  keep  thy  pity  for  the  eyes 

That  pray  for  ni^ht.  yet  fear  to  sleep, 

Lest  wilder,  sadder  visions  rise 

Than  those  o'er  which  they  waking  weep. 

Mourn  not  the  dead, — 'tis  they  alone 
Who  are  the  peaceful  and  the  free; 

The  purest  olive-branch  is  known 
To  twine  about  the  cypress  tree. 

Crime,  pride,  and  passion,  bold  no  more 
The  will'mar  or  the  struggling  slave; 

The,  throbbing  pangs  of  love  are  o'er, 
And  hatred  dwells  not  in  the  grave. 


The  world  may  pour  its  venom'd  blame, 

And  fiercely  spurn  the  shroud-wrapp'd  bier; 

Some  few  may  call  upon  the  name, 
And  sigh  to  meet  a  dull,  cold  ear. 

But  vain  the  scorn  that  would  offend, 
In  vain  the  lips  that  would  beguile ; 

The  coldest  foe,  the  warmest  friend, 

Are  mock'd  by  death's  unchanging  smile. 

The  only  watchword  that  can  tell 
Of  peace  and  freedom  won  by  all, 

Is  echo'd  by  the  tolling  bell, 

And  traced  upon  the  sable  pall ! 


THE  LOVED  ONE  WAS  NOT  THERE. 

WE  gather'd  round  the  festive  board, 

The  crackling  fagot  blazed, 
But  few  would  taste  the  wine  that  pour'd, 

Or  join  the  song  we  raised. 
For  there  was  now  a  glass  unfilfd — 

A  favour' d  place  to  spare; 
All  eyes  were  dull,  all  hearts  were  chill'd — 

The  loved  one  was  not  there. 

No  happy  laugh  was  heard  to  ring, 

No  form  would  lead  the  dance ; 
A  smother'd  sorrow  seem'd  to  fling 

A  gloom  in  every  glance. 
The  grave  has  closed  upon  a  brow, 

The  honest,  bright,  and  fair; 
We  miss'd  our  mate,  we  mourn'd  the  blow — 

The  loved  one  was  not  there. 


THE  QUIET  EYE. 

THE  orb  I  like  is  not  the  one 

That  dazzles  with  its  lightning  gleam, 
That  dares  to  look  upon  the  sun 

As  though  it  challenged  brighter  beam. 
That  orb  may  sparkle,  flash,  and  roll ; 

Its  fire  may  blaze,  its  shaft  may  fly ; 
But  not  for  me:  I  prize  the  soul 

That  slumbers  in  a  quiet  eye. 

There's  something  in  its  placid  shade 

That  tells  of  calm  unworldly  thought; 
Hope  may  be  crown'd,  or  joy  delay'd — 

No  dimness  steals,  no  ray  is  caught: 
Its  pensive  language  seems  to  say, 

"  I  know  that  I  must  close  and  die  ;" 
And  death  itself,  come  when  it  may, 

Can  hardly  change  the  quiet  eye. 

There's  meaning  in  its  steady  glance, 

Of  gentle  blame  or  praising  love, 
That  makes  me  tremble  to  advance 

A  word  that  meaning  might  reprove. 
The  haughty  threat,  the  fiery  look, 

My  spirit  proudly  can  defy; 
But  never  yrt  could  meet  and  brook 

The  upbraiding  of  a  quiet  eye. 


ELIZA    COOK. 


497 


There's  firmness  in  its  even  light, 

That  augurs  of  a  breast  sincere ; 
And,  oh  !  take  watch  how  ye  excite 

That  firmness  till  it  yield  a  tear. 
Some  bosoms  give  an  easy  sigh, 

Some  drops  of  grief  will  freely  start; 
But  that  which  sears  the  quiet,  eye 

Hath  its  deep  fountain  in  the  heart. 


SONG  OF  THE  HEMPSEED. 

AT,  scatter  me  well,  'tis  a  moist  spring  day, 

Wide  and  far  be  the  hempseed  sown, 
And  bravely  I'll  stand  on  the  autumn  land 

When  the  rains  have  dropp'd  and  the  winds 

have  blown. 
Man  shall  carefully  gather  me  up, 

His  hand  shall  rule  and  my  form  shall  change, 
Not  as  a  mate  for  the  purple  of  stnto, 

Nor  into  aught  that  is  "  rich  and  strange." 
But  I  will  come  forth  all  woven  and  spun, 

With  my  fine  threads  curl'd  in  serpent  length, 
And  the  fire-wrought  chain,  and  the  lion's  thick 
mane, 

Shall  be  rivall'd  by  me  in  mighty  strength. 
I  have  many  a  place  in  the  busy  world, 

Of  triumph  and  fear,  of  sorrow  and  joy  ; 
I  carry  the  freeman's  flag  unfurl'd, 

I  am  link'd  to  childhood's  darling  toy. 
Then  scatter  me  wide,  and  hackle  me  well, 
For  a  varied  tale  can  the  hempseed  tell. 

Bravely  I  swing  in  the  anchor  ring 

Where  the  foot  of  the  proud  man  cometh  not, 
Where  the  dolphin  leaps,  and  the  sea-weed  creeps 

O'er  the  rifted  sand  and  coral  grot. 
Down,  down  below  I  merrily  go 

When  the  huge  ship  takes  her  rocking  rest ; 
The  waters  may  chafe,  but  she  dwelleth  as  safe 

As  the  young  bird  in  its  woodland  nest. 
I  wreathe  the  spars  of  that  same  fair  ship 

Where  the  gallant  sea-hearts  cling  about, 
Springing  aloft  with  a  song  on  the  lip, 

Putting  their  faith  in  the  cordage  stout. 
I  am  true  when  the  blast  sways  the  giant  mast, 

Straining  and  stretch'd  in  a  nor' west  gale ; 
I  abide  with  the  bark,  in  the  day  and  the  dark, 

Lashing  the  hammock  and  reefing  the  sail. 
Oh,  the  billows  and  I  right  fairly,  cope, 
And  the  wild  tide  is  stemm'd  by  the  cable  rope. 

Sons  of  evil,  bad  and  bold, 

Madly  ye  live  and  little  ye  reck, 
Till  I  am  noosed  in  a  coiling  fold 

Ready  to  hug  your  felon  neck. 
The  yarn  is  smooth  and  the  knot  is  sure, 

I  will  be  firm  to  the  task  I  take ; 
Thinly  they  twine  the  halter  line, 

Yet  when  does  the  halter  hitch  or  break  1 
My  leaves  are  light  and  my  flowers  are  bright — 

Fit  for  an  infant  hand  to  clasp; 
But  what  think  ye  of  me,  'neath  the  gibbet-tree, 

Dangling  high  in  the  hangman's  grasp  ? 
63 


3h,  a  terrible  thing  does  the  hempseed  seem 
.\vixt  the  hollow  floor  and  stout  cross-bearn  ? 

e  people  rejoice,  the  banners  are  spread  ; 

There  is  frolic  and  feasting  in  cottage  and  hall ; 
The  festival  shout  is  echoing  out 

From  trellis'd  porch  and  gothic  wall ; 
Vterry  souls  hie  to  the  belfry  tower, 

Gaily  they  laugh  when  I  am  found,          [shake 
And   rare  music  they  make,  till  the  quick  peals 

The  ivy  that  wraps  the  turret  round  : 
The  hempseed  lives  with  the  old  church  bell, 
And  helpeth  the  holiday  ding-dong-dell. 

The  sunshine  falls  on  a  new-made  grave  ? 

The  funeral  train  is  long  and  sad  ; 
The  poor  man  has  come  to  the  happiest  home, 

And  easiest  pillow  he  ever  had. 
[  shall  be  there  to  lower  him  down 

Gently  into  his  narrow  bed ; 
[  shall  be  there,  the  work  to  share, 

To  guard  his  feet,  and  cradle  his  head. 
I  may  be  seen  on  the  hillock  green, 

Flung  aside  with  the  bleaching  skull, 
While  the  earth  is  thrown  with  worm  and  bone, 

Till  the  sexton  has  done,  and  the  grave  is  full. 
Back  to  the  gloomy  vault  I'm  borne, 

Leaving  coffin  and  nail  to  crumble  and  rust, 
There  I  am  laid  with  the  mattock  and  spade, 

Moisten'd  with  tears  and  clogg'd  with  dust : 
Oh,  the  hempseed  cometh  in  doleful  shape, 
With  the  mourner's  cloak  and  sable  crape. 

Harvest  shall  spread  with  its  glittering  wheat ; 

The  barn  shall  be  open'd,  the  stack  shall  be  piled ; 
Ye  shall  see  the  ripe  grain  shining  out  from  the  wain, 

And  the  berry-stain'd  arms  of  the  gleaner-child. 
Heap  on,  heap  on,  till  the  wagon-ribs  creak, 

Let  the  sheaves  go  towering  to  the  sky, 
Up  with  the  shock  till  the  broad  wheels  rock, 

Fear  not  to  carry  the  rich  freight  high. 
For  I  will  infold  the  tottering  gold, 

I  will  fetter  the  rolling  load  ; 
Not  an  ear  shall  escape  my  binding  hold, 

On  the  furrow'd  field  or  jolting  road  : 
Oh,  the  hempseed  hath  a  fair  place  to  fill, 
With  the  harvest  band  on  the  corn-crown'd  hill. 

My  threads  are  set  in  the  heaving  net, 

Out  with  the  fisher-boy  far  at  sea, 
While  he  whistles  a  tune  to  the  lonely  moon, 

And  trusts  for  his  morrow's  bread  to  me. 
Toiling  away  through  the  dry  summer-day, 

Round  and  round  I  steadily  twist, 
And  bring  from  the  cell  of  the  deep  old  well 

What  is  rarely  prized  but  sorely  miss'd. 
In  the  whirling  swing — in  the  peg-top  string, 

There  am  I,  a  worshipp'd  slave, 
On  ocean  and  earth  I'm  a  goodly  thing, 

I  serve  from  the  play-ground  to  the  grave. 
I  have  many  a  place  in  the  busy  world, 

Of  triumph  and  fear,  of  sorrow  and  joy  ; 
I  carry  the  freeman's  flag  unfurl'd, 

And  am  link'd  to  childhood's  darling  toy  : 
Then  scatter  me  wide,  and  hackle  me  well, 
And  a  varied  tale  shall  the  hempseed  tell. 


498 


ELIZA    COOK. 


WASHINGTON. 

LAXD  of  the  west !  though  passing  brief 

The  record  of  thine  age, 
Thou  hast  a  name  that  darkens  all 

On  history's  wide  page  ! 
Let  all  the  blasts  of  fame  ring  out — 

Thine  shall  be  loudest  far : 
Let  others  boast  their  satellites — 

Thou  hast  the  planet  star. 

Thou  hast  a  name  whose  characters 
Of  light  shall  ne'er  depart ; 

'Tis  stamp'd  upon  the  dullest  brain, 
And  warms  the  coldest  heart ; 

A  war-cry  fit  for  any  land 
Where  freedom's  to  be  won. 

Land  of  the  west !  it  stands  alone- 
It  is  thy  Washington  ! 

Rome  had  its  Caesar,  great  and  brave ; 

But  stain  was  on  his  wreath  : 
He  lived  the  heartless  conqueror, 

And  died  the  tyrant's  death. 
France  had  its  eagle  ;  but  his  wings, 

Though  lofty  they  might  soar, 
Were  spread  in  false  ambition's  flight, 

And  dipp'd  in  murder's  gore. 

Those  hero-gods,  whose  mighty  sway 

Would  fain  have  chain'd  the  waves — 
Who  flesh'd  their  blades  with  tiger  zeal, 

To  make  a  world  of  slaves — 
Who,  though  their  kindred  barr'd  the  path, 

Still  fiercely  waded  on — 
Oh,  where  shall  be  their  "  glory"  by 

The  side  of  Washington  1 

He  fought,  but  not  with  love  of  strife  , 

He  struck  but  to  defend  ; 
And  ere  he  turn'd  a  people's  foe, 

He  sought  to  be  a  friend. 
He  strove  to  keep  his  country's  right, 

By  reason's  gentle  word, 
And  sigh'd  when  fell  injustice  threw 

The  challenge — sword  to  sword. 

He  stood  the  firm,  the  calm,  the  wise 

The  patriot  and  sage  ; 
He  show'd  no  deep,  avenging  hate — 

No  burst  of  despot  rage. 
He  stood  for  liberty  and  truth, 

And  dauntlcssly  led  on, 
Till  shouts  of  victory  gave  forth, 

The  name  of  Washington. 

No  car  of  triumph  bore  him  through, 

A  city  filFd  with  griff; 
No  groaning  captives  at  the  wheels, 

Proclairn'd  him  victor  chief; 
Ho  broke  the  gyves  of  slavery 

\Yitli  strong  and  high  disdain, 
And  cast  no  sceptre  from  the  links 

When  he  had  crush'd  the  chain. 


He  saved  his  land,  but  did  not  lay 

His  soldier  trappings  down 
To  change  them  for  the  regal  vest, 

And  don  a  kingly  crown. 
Fame  was  too  earnest  in  her  joy — 

Too  proud  of  such  a  son — 
To  let  a  robe  and  title  mask 

A  noble  Washington. 

England,  my  heart  is  truly  thine — 

My  loved,  my  native  earth  ! — 
The  land  that  holds  a  mother's  grave, 

And  gave  that  mother  birth ! 
Oh,  keenly  sad  would  be  the  fate 

That  thrust  me  from  thy  shore, 
And  faltering  my  breath,  that  sigh'd, 

"  Farewell  for  evermore  !" 

But  did  I  meet  such  adverse  lot, 

I  would  not  seek  to  dwell 
Where  olden  heroes  wrought  the  deeds 

For  Homer's  song  to  toll. 
Away,  thou  gallant  ship  !   I'd  cry, 

And  bear  me  swiftly  on  : 
But  bear  me  from  my  own  fair  land, 

To  that  of  Washington  ! 

OUR  NATIVE  SONG. 

OCR  native  song  !  our  native  song  ! 

Oh  !  where  is  he  who  loves  it  not] 
The  spell  it  holds  is  deep  and  strong, 

Where'er  we  go,  whate'er  our  lot. 
Let  other  music  greet  our  ear 

With  thrilling  fire  or  dulcet  tone; 
We  speak  to  praise,  we  pause  to  hear, 

But  yet — oh  !  yet — 'tis  not  our  own  ! 
The  anthem  chant,  the  ballad  wild, 

The  notes  that  we  remember  long — 
The  theme  we  sung  with  lisping  tongue — 

'T  is  this  we  love — our  native  song  ! 

The  one  who  bears  the  felon's  brand, 

With  moody  brow  and  darkcn'd  name, 
Thrust  meanly  from  his  father-land, 

To  languish  out  a  life  of  shame  ; 
Oh  !  let  him  hear  some  simple  strain — 

Some  lay  his  mother  taught  her  boy — 
He'll  feel  the  charm,  and  dream  again 

Of  home,  of  innocence,  and  joy  ! 
The  sigh  will  burst,  the  drops  will  start, 

And  all  of  virtue,  buried  long — 
The  best,  the  purest  in  his  heart, 

Is  waken'd  by  his  native  song. 

Self-exiled  from  our  place  of  .birth, 

To  climes  more  fragrant,  bright,  and  gay 
The  memory  of  our  own  fair  earth 

May  chance  awhile  to  fade  away  : 
But  should  some  minstrel  echo  fall, 

Of  chords  that  breathe  old  England's  fame, 
Our  souls  will  burn,  our  spirits  yearn, 

True  to  the  land  we  love  and  claim. 
The  high  !  the  low  !  in  weal  or  wo, 

Be  sure  there's  something  coldly  wrong 
About  the  heart  that  docs  not  plow 

To  hear  its  own,  its  native  song. 


B.    SIMMONS. 


MR.  SIMMONS  has  been  several  years  a  con- 
tributor to   Blackwood's    Magazine,   and   in 


1843  he  published  a  volume  of  poems  entitled 
Legends  and  Lyrics. 


THE  DISINTERMENT. 

LOST  Lord  of  Song  !  who  grandly  gave 

Thy  matchless  timbrel  for  the  spear — 
And,  by  old  Hellas'  hallow'd  wave 

Died  at  the  feet  of  Freedom — hear  ! 
Hear — from  thy  lone  and  lowly  tomb, 

Where  mid  thy  own  « inviolate  Isle," 
Beneath  no  minster's  marble  gloom, 

No  banner's  golden  smile, 
Far  from  the  swarming  city's  crowd, 
Thy  glory  round  thee  for  a  shroud, 
Thou  sleepest, — the  pious  rustic's  tread 
The  only  echo  o'er  thy  bed, 
Save,  few  and  faint,  when  o'er  the  foam 
The  pilgrims  of  thy  genius  come, 
From  distant  earth,  with  tears  of  praise, 
The  homage  of  their  hearts  to  raise, 
And  curse  the  country's  very  name, 

Unworthy  of  thy  sacred  dust, 
That  draws  such  lustre  from  thy  fame, 

That  heaps  such  outrage  on  thy  bust ! 
Wake  from  the  dead — and  lift  thy  brow 
With  the  same  scornful  beauty  now, 
As  when  beneath  thy  shafts  of  pride 
Envenom'd  cant — the  Python — died  ! 
Prophet  no  less  than  bard,  behold 
Matured  the  eventful  moment,  told 
In  those  divine  predictive  words 
Pour'd  to  the  lyre's  transcendent  chords  : — 
« If  e'er  his  awful  ashes  can  grow  cold — 
B  ut  no,  their  embers  soon  shall  bursttheir  mould — 

France  shall  feel  the  want 

Of  this  last  consolation,  though  but  scant. 

Her  honour,  fame,  and  faith  demand  his  bones, 

To  pile  above  a  pyramid  of  thrones  !" 

If,  then,  from  thy  neglected  bier, 

One  humblest  follower  thou  canst  hear, 

O  mighty  Master !  rise  and  flee, 

Swift  as  some  meteor  bold  and  bright, 
With  me  thy  cloud,  attending  thee, 

Across  the  dusky  tracts  of  night, 
To  where  the  sunset's  latest  radiance  shone 
O'er  Afric's  sea  interminably  lone. 

Below  that  broad  unbroken  sea 

Long  since  the  sultry  sun  has  dropp'd, 

And  now  in  dread  solemnity 

— As  though  its  course  Creation  stopp'd 

One  wondrous  hour,  to  watch  the  birth 

Of  deeds  portentous  unto  earth — 

The  moonless  midnight,  far  and  wide, 
Solidly  black,  flings  over  all 


The  giant  waste  of  waveless  tide 

Her  melancholy  pall, 
Whose  folds  iu  thickest  gloom  unfurl'd, 

Each  ray  of  heaven's  high  face  debar, 
Save,  on  the  margin  of  the  world 

Where  leans  yon  solitary  star, 
Large,  radiant,  restless,  tinting  with  far  smile 
The  jagged  cliffs  of  a  gray  barren  Isle. 

Hark  !  o'er  the  waves  distinctly  swell 

Twelve  slow  vibrations  of  a  bell ! 

And  out  upon  the  silent  ear 

At  once  ring  bold  and  sharply  clear, 

WTith  shock  more  startling  than  if  thunder 

Had  split  the  slumbering  earth  asunder, 

The  iron  sounds  of  crow  and  bar  ; 

Ye  scarce  may  know  from  whence  they  come, 
Whether  from  island  or  from  star, 

Both  lie  so  hush'd  and  dumb! 
On,  swift  and  deep,  those  echoes  sweep, 
Shaking  long-buried  kings  from  sleep — 
tTp,  up  !  ye  sceptred  Jailers — ho ! 

Your  granite  heaped  his  head  in  vain  ; 
The  very  grave  gives  back  your  foe — 

Dead  Caesar  wakes  again  ! 
The  nations,  with  a  voice  as  dread 

As  that  which  once  in  Bethany 
Burst  to  the  regions  of  the  dead, 

And  set  the  loved-one  free, 
Have  cried,  "  Come  forth  !"  and  lo  !  again, 
To  smite  the  hearts  and  eyes  of  men 
With  the  old  awe  he  once  instill'd 
By  many  an  unforgotten  field, 
Napoleon's  look  shall  startle  day — 

That  look  that,  where  its  anger  fell, 
Scorch'd  empires  from  the  earth  away 

As  with  the  blasts  of  hell ! 

Up — from  the  dust,  ye  sleepers,  ho  ! 

By  the  blue  Danube's  stately  wave — 
From  Berlin's  towers — from  Moscow's  snow, 

And  Windsor's  gorgeous  grave  ! 
Come — summon'd  by  the  omnific  power, 
The  spirit  of  this  thrilling  hour — 
And,  stooping  from  yon  craggy  height, 
Girt  by  each  perish'd  satellite, 
Each  cunning  tool  of  kingly  terror 
Who  served  your  reigns  of  fraud  and  error, 
Behold,  where  with  relentless  lock 
Ye  chain'd  Prometheus  to  his  rock, 
And,  when  his  tortured  bosom  ceased 
Your  vulture's  savage  beak  to  feast, 
Where  fathom-deep  ye  dug  his  cell, 

And  built  and  barr'd  his  coffin  down, 

499 


500 


B.    SIMMONS. 


Half  doubting  if  even  death  could  quell 

Such  terrible  renown  ; 
Now  mid  the  torch's  solemn  glare, 
And  bended  knee,  and  mutter d  prayer, 
Within  that  green  sepulchral  glon 
Uncover'd  groups  of  warrior  men 
Breathless  perform  the  high  behest 

Of  winning  back,  in  priceless  trust, 
For  the  regenerated  West, 

Your  victim's  mighty  dust. 
Hark  !  how  they  burst  your  cramps  and  rings — 
Ha,  ha !  ye  banded,  baffled  kings  ! 

Stout  men !  delve  on  with  axe  and  bar, 
Ye' re  watch'd  from  yonder  restless  star: 
Hew  the  tough  masonry  away — 

Bid  the  tomb's  ponderous  portals  fly  ! 
And  firm  your  sounding  levers  sway, 

And  loud  your  clanking  hammers  ply ; 
Nor  falter  though  the  work  be  slow, 
Ye  something  gain  in  every  blow, 
While  deep  each  heart  in  chorus  sings, 
"  Ha,  ha  !  ye  banded,  baffled  kings  !" 
Brave  men  !  delve  on  with  axe  and  bar, 
Ye're  watch'd  from  yonder  glorious  star. 

'Tis  mom — —the  marble  floor  is  cleft, 
And  slight  and  short  the  labour  left ; 

'Tis  noon they  wind  the  windlass  now 

To  heave  the  granite  from  his  brow  : 

Back  to  each  gazer's  waiting  heart 

The  life-blood  leaps  with  anxious  start — 

Down  Bertrand's  cheek  the  tear-drop  steals — 

Low  in  the  dust  Las  Casas  kneels, 

(Oh  !  Tried  and  trusted — still,  as  long 

As  the  true  heart's  fidelity 
Shall  form  the  theme  of  harp  and  song, 

High  bards  shall  sing  of  ye  !) 
One  moment,  and  thy  beams,  O  sun  ! 
The  bier  of  him  shall  look  upon, 
Who,  save  the  heaven-expell'd,  alone 
Dared  envy  thee  thy  blazing  throne ; 
Who  haply  oft,  with  gaze  intent, 

And  sick  from  victory's  vulgar  war, 
Panted  to  sweep  the  firmament, 

And  dash  thee  from  thy  car, 
And  cursed  the  clay  that  still  confined 
His  narrow  conquests  to  mankind. 

'Tis  done — his  chiefs  are  lifting  now 
The  shroud  from  that  tremendous  brow, 
That  with  the  lightning's  rapid  might 
Illumed  Marengo's  awful  night — 
Flash'd  over  Lodi's  murderous  bridge, 
Swept  Prussia  from  red  Jena's  ridge, 
And  broke  once  more  the  Austrian  sword 
By  Wagram's  memorable  ford. 
And  may  man's  puny  race,  that  shook 
Before  the  terrors  of  that  look, 
Approach  unshrinking  now,  and  see 
How  far  corruption's  mastery 
Has  tamed  the  tyrant-tamer  ? 

Raise 

That  silken  cloud,  what  meets  the  gaze  ? 
The  scanty  dust,  or  whitening  bones, 
Or  fleshless  jaws'  horrific  mirth, 


Of  him  whose  threshold-steps  were  thrones, 

A  mockery  now  to  earth  1 
No — even  as  though  his  haughty  clay 
Scoff 'd  at  the  contact  of  decay, 
And  from  his  mind's  immortal  flame 
Itself  immortalized  became, 
Tranquilly  there  NAPOLEOX  lies  reveal'd, 
Like  a  king  sleeping  on  his  own  proud  shield, 
Harness'd  for  conflict,  and  that  eagle-star, 
Whose  fire-eyed  legion  foremost  waked  the  war, 
Still  on  his  bosom,  tarnish'd  too  and  dim, 
As  if  hot  battle's  cloud  had  lately  circled  him. 

Fast  fades  the  vision — from  that  glen 
Wind  slow  those  aching-hearted  men, 
While  every  mountain  echo  floats, 
Fill'd  with  the  bugle's  regal  notes — 
And  now  the  gun's  redoubled  roar 

Tells  the  lone  peak  and  mighty  main, 
Beneath  his  glorious  Tricolor 

Napoleon  rests  again  ! 
And  France's  galley  soon  the  sail 
Shall  spread  triumphant  to  the  gale ; 
Till,  lost  upon  the  lingering  eye, 
It  melts  and  mingles  in  the  sky. 

Let  Paris,  too,  prepare  a  show, 
And  deck  her  streets  in  gaudy  wo ; 
And  rear  a  more  than  kingly  shrine, 

Whose  tapers'  blaze  shall  ne'er  be  dim, 
And  bid  the  sculptor's  art  divine 

Be  lavish'd  there  for  him, 
And  let  him  take  his  rest  serene, 
(Even  so  he  will'd  it)  by  the  Seine ; 
But  ever  to  the  poet's  heart, 

Or  pilgrim  musing  o'er  those  pages 
(Replete  with  marvels)  that  impart 

His  story  unto  ages, 
The  spacious  azure  of  yon  sea 
Alone  his  minster  floor  shall  be, 
Coped  by  the  stars — red  evening's  smile 
His  epitaph  ;  and  thou,  rude  Isle, 
Austerely-brow'd  and  thundet  rent, 
Napoleon's  only  monument! 


VIEW  ON  THE  HUDSON. 

SOUND  to  the  sun  thy  solemn  joy  for  ever ! 

Roll  forth  the  enormous  gladness  of  thy  waves, 
!  Mid  boundless  bloom,  thou  bright  majestic  river, 

Worthy  the  giant  land  thy  current  laves ! 
Each  bend  of  beauty,  from  the  stooping  cliff, 
Whose  shade  is  dotted  by  the  fisher's  skiff, — 
From  rocks  embattled,  that,  abrupt  and  tall, 
Heave  their  bulk  skyward  like  a  castle-wall, 
And  hem  thee  in,  until  the  Rapids  hoarse 
Split  the  huge  marble  with  an  earthquake's  force, 
To  where  thy  waves  are  sweet  with  summer  scents, 
Flung  from  the  Highland's  softer  lineaments — 
Each  lovelier  change  thy  broadening  billows  take, 
Now  sweeping  on,  now  like  some  mierhty  lake, 
Stretching  away  where  evening-tinted  isles 
Woo  thee  to  linger  mid  their  rosy  smiles — 


B.    SIMMONS. 


501 


The  lonely  cove — the  village-humming  hill — 
The  green  dell  lending  thee  its  fairy  rill — 
All,  all,  are  old  familiar  scenes  to  one 
Who  tracks  thee  but  by  fancy's  aid  alone. 

Yet  well  his  boyhood's  earnest  hours  adored 
Thy  haunted  headlands,  since  he  first  explored 
With  Weld  the  vast  and  shadowy  recesses 
Of  their  grand  woods  and  verdant  wildernesses ; 
Since  first  he  open'd  the  enchanted  books 
(Whose  words  are  silver  liquid  as  the  brook's) 
Of  that  loved  wanderer,  who  told  the  west 
Van  Winkle's  wondrous  tale,  and  fill'd  each  breast 
By  turns  with  awe,  delight,  or  blithe  emotion, 

Painting  the  life  thy  forest-shadows  knew, 
What  time  the  settlers,  crowding  o'er  the  ocean, 

Spread  their  white  sails  along  thy  waters  blue. 

Theirs  were  the  hearts  true  liberty  bestows — 

The  valour  that  adventure  lights  in  men  ; 
And  in  their  children  still  the  metal  glows, 

As  well  can  witness  each  resounding  glen 
Of  the  fair  scene,  whose  mellow  colours  shine 

Beneath  the  splendour  of  yon  evening  orb, 
That  sinks  serene  as  WASHINGTON'S  decline, 

Whose  memory  here  should  meaner  thoughts 

absorb. 

H-^re  rose  the  ramparts,  never  rear'd  in  vain 
When  Justice  smites  in  two  the  oppressor's  chain; 
Here,  year  on  year,  through  yonder  heaven  of  blue, 
The  bomb's  hot  wrath  its  rending  volleys  threw 
Against  those  towers,  which,  scorning  all  attack, 
Still  roll'd  the  assailants'  shatter'd  battle  back; 
Till,  as  they  fled  in  final  rout,  behind 
Soar'd  the  Republic's  flag,  high-floating  in  the  wind! 

Long  may  that  star-emblazoned  banner  wave 
Its  folds  triumphant  o'er  a  land  so  brave, 
Fann'd  by  no  breeze  but  that  which  wafts  us  now 
The  laugh  of  Plenty,  leaning  on  the  plough. 
And  should  Columbia's  iron-hearted  men 
Try  the  fierce  fortune  of  the  sword  again, 
Be  theirs  to  wield  it  in  no  wanton  cause, 
Fired  by  no  braggart  orators'  applause, 
In  no  red  conflict,  whose  unrighteous  tide 
Could  cull  nor  Truth  nor  Mercy  to  their  side, 
So  may  their  empire  still  supremely  sweep 
From  age  to  age  the  illimitable  deep, 
With  sway  surpassing  all  but  her  proud  reign, 
Whose  hand  reposes  on  her  lion's  mane — 
The  Ocean  Queen — within  whose  rude  isle  lock'd 
Their  own  stern  fathers'  infancy  was  rock'd ; 
Where  first  they  breathed,  arnid  the  bracing  north, 
Fair  Freedom's  spirit,  till  she  sent  them  forth — 
Her  cloud  above  their  exodus  unfurl'd — 
To  spread  her  worship  o'er  a  second  world. 


DEATH-CHANT  FOR  THE  SULTAN 
MAHMOUD. 

RAISE  the  song  to  the  mighty,  whose  glory  shall  die 
When  the  inoon  of  his  empire  has  dropp'd  from  the 

sky; 

And  if  wail  be  awaken'd  for  him  who  smote  down 
Grim  bigotry's  Moloch,  guilt's  bloody  renown, 


Be  it  lost  in  the  trumpet's  magnificent  wo, 
From  the  Bosphorus  swelling, 
To  Christendom  telling 

That  the  fiery  Rome-tramplers'  descendant  is  low. 

By  the  Prophet !-  remember  his  terrible  mirth, 
When  he  swept  the  Janitzars  as  stubble  from  earth ; 
On  the  domes  of  Sophia  like  midnight  he  stood, 
The  avenger  of  Selim's  and  Mustapha's  blood! 
Red  dogs  of  rebellion,  with  tearing  and  yell 

And  chain'd  valour's  despair, 

In  their  own  savage  lair, 
Mow'd  down  beneath  cannon  and  carbine  they  fell. 

Raise  the  song  to  the  mighty !  high  Mahmoud, 

whose  stroke 

In  a  moment  the  fetters  of  centuries  broke ! 
Far  kings  of  the  west,  how  your  trophies  grow  dim 
In  the  light  of  the  fame  that  awaiteth  for  him  ! 
The  contemner  of  Korans,  who,  girded  by  foes, 

The  Ark  of  salvation 

First  launch'd  for  his  nation, 
When  the^press  mid  the  curses  of  fanatics  rose. 

Hu  Alia — hu  Alia!  the  blest  caravan 
Is  in  sight  from  Damascus,  and  Mecca  is  wan — 
Sheik  and  Imam  are  trembling  with  terror  and  awe, 
For  this  Cadmus  of  Caliphs  has  laugh'd  at  the  law : 
Fair  painting  must  sully  the  Prophet's  proud  tomb, 

For  Athene,  not  loth, 

Has  left  Greece  to  the  Goth, 
And  planted  her  arts-shading  olive  in  Roum. 

In  vain,  Ghazi-Sultaun  !  when  Pera's  sweet  shore 
In  the  blue  of  Propontis  is  rosy  no  more — 
When  Olympus  no  longer  on  Thrace  looks  abroad, 
And  the  name  of  the  Frank  shall  not  signify  fraud, 
Then  the  slaves  shall  be  worthy  the  war-vest,  and 
then, 

When  thy  spirit  imparts 

To  their  recreant  hearts 
Its  grandeur,  thy  horse-tails  may  flap  over  men. 

Sound  the  trump  for  the  mighty!  great  Allah  thy 

son 

With  Azrel,  the  angel  unsparing,  is  gone ! 
While  round  his  shrunk  borders  the  thunder  was 

growling, 
And   the  Muscovite  wolves  thickly  herded  were 

howling, 

And  snuffing  the  gales  that,  refreshingly  cool, 
On  their  merciless  thirst 
In  wild  redolence  burst, 
Where,  bulwark'd  in  gold,  blush  the  brides  of  Stam- 

boul. 

Sound  the  trump  for  the  mighty  !  he  died  ere  the 

tramp 
Of  the  terror-horsed  Tartar  who  dash'd  from  the 

carnp 

Stay'd  his  soul  with  the  tale  that  his  dastardly  hordes 
Lay  reap'd   upon   Nekshib,   where   sickles  were 

swords ! 
And  the  lords  of  the  spear's  haughty  kingdom  has 

past 

To  the  Rebel  and  Hun  ! 
And  the  death-song  is  done : 
But  thy  praise  shall  not  perish,  lost  Mahmoud  the 

Last! 


F.    W.    F  A  B  E  R. 


Mr.  FABER*  is  a  young1  clergyman  of  the 
established  church,  and  is  the  author  of 
The  Cherwell  Water-Lily  and  other  Poems, 
published  in  1840,  and  Sir  Launcelot,  in 


the  summer  of  1844.  His  style  is  simple 
and  poetical,  and  his  productions  are  gene- 
rally serious  in  sentiment  and  earnest  in 
thought. 


KING'S  BRIDGE. 

THE  dew  falls  fast,  and  the  night  is  dark, 
And  the  trees  stand  silent  in  the  park; 
And  winter  passeth  from  bough  to  bough, 
With  stealthy  foot  that  none  may  know; 
But  little  the  old  man  thinks  he  weaves 
His  frosty  kiss  on  the  ivy  leaves. 

From  bridge  to  bridge  with  tremulous  fall 
The  river  droppeth  down, 

And  it  washeth  the  base  of  a  pleasant  hall 

On  the  skirts  of  Cambridge  town. 
Old  trees  by  night  are  like  men  in  thought, 
By  poetry  to  silence  wrought ; 
They  stand  so  still  and  they  look  so  wise, 
With  folded  arms  and  half-shut  eyes, 
More  shadowy  than  the  shade  they  cast 
When  the  wan  moonlight  on  the  river  pa.=t. 

The  river  is  green,  and  runneth  slow — 
We  cannot  tell  what  it  saith  ; 

It  keepeth  its  secrets  down  below, 
And  so  doth  Death  ! 

Oh  !  the  night  is  dark  ;  but  not  so  dark 
As  my  poor  soul  in  this  lonely  park  : 
There  are  festal  lights  by  the  stream,  that  fall, 
Like  stars,  from  the  casements  of  yonder  hall 
But  harshly  the  sounds  of  jovannce  grate 
On  one  that  is  crush'd  and  desolate. 

From  bridge  to  bridge  with  tremulous  fall 
The  river  droppeth  down, 

As  it  washeth  the  base  of  a  pleasant  hall 

On  the  skirts  of  Cambridge  town. 
O  Mary  !   Mary  !  could  I  but  hear 
What  this  river  saith  in  night's  still  ear, 
And  catch  the  faint  whispering  voice  it  brings 
From  its  lowlands  green  and  its  reedy  springs: 
It  might  tell  of  the  spot  where  the  graybeard's  spade 
Turn'd  the  cold  wet  earth  in  the  lirne-tree  shade. 

The  river  is  green,  and  runneth  slow — 
We  cannot  tell  what  it  saith  : 

It  keepeth  its  secrets  down  below, 
And  so  dolh  Death  ! 

For  death  was  bom  in  thy  blood  with  life — 
Too  holy  a  fount  for  such  sad  strife : 
Li'-'o  a.  parrot  curse  from  hour  to  hour 
The  canker  gr<>".  vowing  flower; 

•And  littlo  vvn  d»r>m'd  tint  rosy  streak 
Was  th»  tynnt's  seal  on  thy  virgin  cheek. 
.',  -I  ' 


From  bridge  to  bridge  with  tremulous  fall 

The  river  droppeth  down, 
As  it  washeth  the  base  of  a  pleasant  hall 

On  the  skirts  of  Cambridge  town. 
But  fainter  and  fainter  thy  bright  eyes  grew, 
'And  redder  and  redder  that  rosy  hue; 
And  the  half-shed  tears  that  never  fell, 
And  the  pain  within  thou  wouldst  not  tell, 
And  the  wild,  wan  smile, — all  spoke  of  death, 
That  had  wither'd  my  chosen  with  his  breath. 
The  river  is  green,  and  runneth  slow — 

We  cannot  tell  what  it  saith  : 
It  keepeth  its  secrets  down  below, 
And  so  doth  Death  ! 

'Twas  o'er  thy  harp,  one  day  in  June, 
I  marvell'd  the  strings  were  out  of  tune  ; 
But  lighter  and  quicker  the  music  grew, 
And  deadly  white  was  thy  rosy  hue ; 
One  moment — and  back  the  colour  came, 
Thou  calledst  me  by  my  Christian  name. 

From  bridge  to  bridge  with  tremulous  fall 
The  river  droppeth  down, 

As  it  washeth  the  base  of  a  pleasant  hall 

On  the  skirts  of  Cambridge  town. 
Thou  badest  me  be  silent  and  bold, 
But  my  brain  was  hot,  and  my  heart  was  cold. 
I  never  wept,  and  I  never  spake, 
But  stood  like  a  rock  where  the  salt  seas  break; 
And  to  this  day  I  have  shed  no  tear 
O'er  my  blighted  love  and  my  chosen's  bier. 

The  river  is  green,  and  runneth  slow  — 
We  cannot  tell  what  it  saith : 

It  keepeth  its  secrets  down  below, 
And  so  doth  Death ! 

I  stood  in  the  church  with  burning  brow, 
The  lips  of  the  priest  moved  solemn  and  slow. 
I  noted  each  pause,  and  counted  each  swell, 
As  a  sentry  numbers  a  minute-bell ; 
For  unto  the  mourner's  heart  they  call 
From  the  deeps  of  that  wondrous  ritual. 

From  bridge  to  bridge  with  tremulous  fall 
The  river  droppeth  down, 

As  it  washeth  the  base  of  a  pleasant  hall 

On  the  skirts  of  Cambridge  town. 
My  spirit  was  lost  in  a  mystic  srrno, 
Where  the  sun  and  moon  in  silvery  sheen 
Wove  bclK'd  with  stars  on  emerald  \vinrrs, 
And  fishes  and  beasts,  and  all  fleshly  things, 


F,    W.    FABER. 


503 


And  the  spheres  did  whirl  with  laughter  and  mirth 
Round  the  grave  forefather  of  the  earth. 
The  river  is  green,  and  runneth  slow — 

We  cannot  tell  what  it  saith  : 
It  keepeth  its  secrets  down  below, 
And  so  doth  Death  ! 

The  dew  falls  fast,  and  the  night  is  dark ; 

The  trees  stand  silent  in  the  park. 

The  festal  lights  have  all  died  out, 

And  naught  is  heard  but  a  lone  owl's  shout. 

The  mists  keep  gathering  more  and  more ; 

But  the  stream  is  silent  as  before. 

From  bridge  to  bridge  with  tremulous  fall 
The  river  droppeth  down, 

As  it  washeth  the  base  of  a  pleasant  hall 

On  the  skirts  of  Cambridge  town. 
Why  should  I  think  of  my  boyhood's  bride 
As  I  walk  by  this  low-voiced  river's  side  1 
And  why  should  its  heartless  waters  seem 
Like  a  horrid  thought  in  a  feverish  dream  1 
But  it  will  not  speak;  and  it  keeps  in  its  bed 
The  words  that  are  sent  us  from  the  dead. 

The  river  is  green,  and  runneth  slow — 
We  cannot  tell  what  it  saith  ; 

It  keepeth  its  secrets  down  below, 
And  so  doth  Death  ! 


CHILDHOOD. 

TO   MY    ONLY    SISTER. 

DOST  thou  remember  how  we  lived  at  home — 
That  it  was  like  an  oriental  place,  [come 

Where  right  and  wrong,  and  praise  and  blame  did 
By  ways  we  wonder'd  at  and  durst  not  trace; 

And  gloom  and  sadness  were  but  shadows  thrown 

From  griefs  that  were  our  sire's  and  not  our  own? 

It  was  a  moat  about  our  souls,  an  arm 

Of  sea,  that  made  the  world  a  foreign  shore ; 

And  we  were  too  enamour'd  of  the  charm 

To  dream  that  barks  might  come  and  waft  us  o'er. 

Cold  snow  was  on  the  hills ;  and  they  did  wear 

Too  wild  and  wan  a  look  to  tempt  us  there. 

We  had  traditions  of  our  own,  to  weave 

A  web  of  creed  and  rite  and  sacred  thought; 

And  when  a  stranger,  who  did  not  believe 

As  they  who  were  our  types  of  God  had  taught, 

Came  to  our  home,  how  harsh  his  words  did  seem 

Like  sounds  that  mar,  but  cannot  break  a  dream. 

And  then  in  Scripture  some  high  things  there  were, 
Of  which,  they  said,  we  must  not  read  or  talk; 

And  we,  through  fear,  did  never  trespass  there, 
But  made  our  Bibles  like  our  twilight  walk 

In  the  deep  woodlands,  where  we  durst  not  roam 

To  .spots  from  whence  we  could  not  see  our  home. 

Albnit  we  fondly  hoped,  when  we  were  men, 
To  learn  the  lore  our  parents  loved  so  well, 

ATM!  road  the  rites  and  symbols  which  were  then 
But  letters  of  a  word  we  could  not  spell — 

Church-bells,  and  Sundays  when  we  did  not  play, 

And  s;»crarncnts  at  which  we  might  not  stay. 


But  we  too  soon  from  our  safe  place  were  driven ; 

The  world  broke  in  upon  our  orphan'd  life. 
Dawnings  of  good,  young  flowers  that  look'd  to 
Heaven, 

It  left  untill'd  for  what  seem'd  manlier  strife; 
Like  a  too  early  summer,  bringing  fruit 
Where  spring  perchance  had  meant  another  shoot! 

Some  begin  life  too  soon, — like  sailors  thrown 
Upon  a  shore  where  common  things  look  strange! 

Like  them  they  roam  about  a  foreign  town, 

And  grief  awhile  may  own  the  force  of  change. 

Yet,  though  one  hour  new  dress  and  tongue  may 
please, 

Our  second  thoughts  look  homeward,  ill  at  ease. 

Come  then  unto  our  childhood's  wreck  again — 
The  rocks  hard  by  our  father's  early  grave ; 

And  take  the  few  chance  treasures  that  remain, 
And  live  through  manhood  upon  what  we  save. 

So  shall  we  roam  the  same  old  shore  at  will ! 

In  the  fond  faith  -that  we  are  children  still. 

Christian  !  thy  dream  is  now — it  was  not  then : 
Oh!  it  were  strange  if  childhood  were  a  dream. 

Strife  and  the  world  are  dreams:  to  wakeful  men 
Childhood  and  home  as  jealous  angels  seem  : 

Like  shapes  and  hues  that  play  in  clouds  at  even, 

They  have  but  shifted  from  thee  into  heaven ! 


THE  GLIMPSE. 

OUR  many  deeds,  the  thoughts  that  we  have  thought, 
They  go  out  from  us,  thronging  every  hour; 
And  in  them  all  is  folded  up  a  power 

That  on  the  earth  doth  move  them  to  and  fro : 
And  mighty  are  the  marvels  they  have  wrought 

In  hearts  we  know  not,  and  may  never  know. 
Our  actions  travel  and  are  veil'd  :  and  yet 

We  sometimes  catch  a  fearful  glimpse  of  one, 

When  out  of  sight  its  march  hath  well-nigh  gone ; 
An  unveil'd  thing  which  we  can  ne'er  forget! 
All  sins  it  gathers  up  into  its  course, 
And  they  do  grow  with  it,  and  are  its  force : 
One  day,  with  dizzy  speed  that  thing  shall  come, 
Recoiling  on  the  heart  that  was  its  home. 


THE  PERPLEXITY. 

,  therefore,  when  I  look  into  my  heart, 
And  see  how  full  it  is  of  mighty  schemes, 
Some  that  shall  ripen,  some  be  ever  dreams, 
And  yet,  though  dreams,  shall  act  a  real  part: 
When  I  behold  of  what  and  how  great  things 
I  am  the  cause ;  how  quick  the  living  springs 
That  vibrate  in  me,  and  how  far  they  go, — 
Thought  doth  but  seem  another  name  for  fear; 

And  I  would  fain  sit  still  fuiJ  lu-vp.r  rise 
To  meddle  with  myself, — God  feels  so  near. 
And,  all  the  time,  he  movi-th,  calm  and  slow 

And  unperplex'd,  though  naked  to  His  eyes 
A  thousand  thousand  spirits  pictured  are, 
Kerm'd  through  the  shroud  that  wraps  the  heaven 
of  heavens  afar  !  < 


504 


F.    W.    FABER. 


TO  A  LITTLE  BOY. 

DEAR  little  one  !   and  can  thy  mother  find 
In  those  soft  lineaments,  that  move  so  free 
To  smi'es  or  tears,  as  holiest  infancy 

About  thy  heart  its  glorious  web  doth  wind, 

A  faithful  likeness  of  my  sterner  mind  1 

Ah !  then  there  must  be  times,  unknown  to  me, 

When  my  lost  boyhood,  like  a  wandering  air, 
Comes  for  a  while  to  pass  upon  my  face, 
Giving  me  back  the  dear  familiar  grace 

O'er  which  my  mother  pour'd  her  last  fond  prayer. 

But  sin  and  age  will  rob  me  of  this  power; 
Though  now  my  heart,  like  an  uneasy  lake, 
Some  broken  images,  at  times,  may  take 

From  forms  which  fade  more  sadly  every  hour ! 


THE  AFTER-STATE. 

A  SPIRIT  came  upon  me  in  the  night; 
And  led  me  gently  down  a  rocky  stair, 
Unto  a  peopled  garden,  green  and  fair, 
Where  all  the  day  there  was  an  evening  light. 
Trees  out  of  every  nation  blended  there ; 

The  citron  shrub  its  golden  fruit  did  train 
Against  an  English  elm. — 'Twas  like  a  dream, 
Because  there  was  no  wind ;  and  things  did  seem 
All  near  and  big — like  mountains  before  rain. 
Far  in  those  twilight  bowers,  beside  a  stream, 
The  soul  of  one  who  had  but  lately  died 
Hung  listening,  with  a  brother  at  his  side  : 
And  no  one  spoke  in  all  that  haunted  place, — 
But  looked  quietly  into  each  other's  face  ! 


THE  WHEELS. 

THERE  are  strange,  solemn  times  when  serious  men 
Sink  out  of  depth  in  their  own  spirit,  caught 
All  unawares,  arid  held  by  some  strong  thought 

That  comes  to  them,  they  know  not  how  or  when, 


And  bears  them  down  through  many  a  winding  cell, 
Where  the  soul's  busy  agents  daikly  dwell; 
Each  watching  by  his  wheel,  that,  bright  and  bare, 
Revolveth  day  and  night,  to  do  its  part 
In  building  up  for  heaven  one  single  heart. 
And  moulds  of  curious  form  are  scatter'd  there, 
As  yet  unused, — the  shapes  of  after  deeds: 
And  veiled  growths  and  thickly  sprouting  seeds 
Are  strewn,  in  which  our  future  life  doth  lie, 
Sketch'd  out  m  dim  and  wondrous  prophecy. 


THE  SIGNS  OF  THE  TIMES. 

THE  days  of  old  were  days  of  might 
In  forms  of  greatness  moulded, 

And  flowers  of  heaven  grew  on  the  earth, 
Within  the  church  unfolded  ; 

For  grace  fell  fast  as  summer  dew, 

And  saints  to  giant  stature  grew. 

But,  one  by  one,  the  gifts  are  gone 

That  in  the  church  resided, 
And  gone  the  spirit's  living  light 

That  on  her  walls  abided, 
When  by  our  shrines  He  came  to  dwell 
In  power  and  presence  visible. 

A  blight  hath  past  upon  the  church, 

Her  summer  hath  departed, 
The  chill  of  age  is  on  her  sons, 

The  cold  and  fearful-hearted  : 
And  sad,  amid  neglect  and  scorn, 
Our  mother  sits  and  weeps  forlorn. 

Narrow  and  narrower  still  each  year 

The  holy  circle  groweth. 
And  what  the  end  of  all  shall  be 

No  man  nor  angel  knoweth: 
And  so  we  wait  and  watch  in  fear; 
It  may  be  that  the  Lord  is  near ! 


THE    END. 


PT*HFOTTP*,»    BY   T,.    JOHNSON, 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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